PROPERTY 

^O  tf^X^^l     -«^vVv> 

OF 

The  American  Society  for  the  Extension 

of  University  Teaching, 
Fifteenth   and    Chestnut   Streets, 

PHILADELPHIA. 


1    ''  ;  i  I 


^^v£  s&y. 


THE    LETTEES 


OF 


CHARLES    LAMB 


^rrangefc,  fottf) 


EDITED,   WITH   INTKODUCTION   AND  NOTES,   BY 

ALFRED   AINGER 


VOL.  I. 


NEW  YORK : 
A.  C.  ARMSTRONG  &  SON, 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York. 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND 

ADOLPHUS   WILLIAM   WARD 

M.A.    LITT.D. 

OF  OWENS  COLLEGE,  MANCHESTER 

THIS  EDITION  OF 
THE  WORKS  AND  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  CHARLES  LAMB 

IS 
AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.   I. 

PAGE 

SONNET  TO  ELIA xiv 

INTRODUCTION xv 

CHAPTER   I. 

1796-1800. 
LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE,  SOUTHEY,  AND  MANNING. 

LETTER  DATE  PAGE 

I.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE    May  27,  1796  1 
II.                „                    „                .  [No  Month]  1796      3 

III.  „     .               „               .     June  10,  1796  10 

IV.  „                    „                .     June  13,  1796  21 
V.                „                    „                .     June  14,  1796  23 

VI.               „                   „               .     July  1,  1796  26 

VII.                „                    „                .     July  5,  1796  28 

VIII.                „                    „                .     Sept.  27,  1796  32 

IX.                „                    „                .     Oct.  3,  1796  33 

X.                „                    „                .     Oct.  17,  1796  38 

XI.                „                    „                .     Oct.  24,  1796  39 

XIL                „                   „               .     Oct.  28,  1796  41 

XIII.  „                    „                .     Nov.  8,  1796  43 

XIV.  .     Nov.  14,  1796  46 


Vlll                                      CONTENTS. 

.LETTER 

DATE 

PAGE 

XV.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLE- 

RIDGE    .... 

Dec.  2,  1796 

49 

XVI. 

Dec.  5,  1796 

52 

XVII. 

Dec.  10,  1796 

52 

XVIII. 

Dec.  1796 

55 

XIX. 

Jan.  2,  1797 

56 

XX.                      „                                ,,            i    &• 

Jan.  5,  1797 

57 

XXI. 

Jan.  10,  1797 

63 

XXII. 

Jan.  16,  1797 

67 

XXIII. 

Feb.  13,  1797 

69 

XXIV. 

April  7,  1797 

73 

XXV.             ,,                   ,, 

April  15,  1797 

75 

XXVI. 

1797 

76 

XXVII. 

June  13,  1797 

76 

XXVIII. 

June  24,  1797 

78 

XXIX. 

July  1797 

79 

XXX.             ,,                   ,, 

Sept.  1797 

81 

XXXI.             „                  „ 

Dec.  10,  1797 

83 

XXXII. 

Jan.  28,  1798 

85 

XXXIII.  To  ROBERT  SOTTTHEY  . 

July  28,  1798 

87 

XXXIV.          „                           .        . 

Oct.  18,  1798 

90 

XXXV.          „                           .        . 

90 

XXXVI.          „                           .        . 

Nov.  3,  1798 

93 

XXXVII.          „                          .        . 

Nov.  8,  1798 

95 

XXXVIII. 

Nov.  28,  1798 

96 

XXXIX.          „               „ 

Dec.  27,  1798 

99 

XL. 

Jan.  21,  1799 

100 

XLI.         .„               „          .        . 

Mar.  15,  1799 

102 

XLII.          „                           .        . 

Mar.  20,  1799 

104 

XLIII. 

April  20,  1799 

107 

CONTENTS.  IX 

LETTEB                                                                                                              DATE  PAGE 

XLIV.  To  ROBERT  SOUTHEY      .        .    May  20,  1799  107 

XLV.           „                 „                           Oct.  31,  1799  109 

XLVI.  To  THOMAS  MANNING    .        .     Dec.  28,  1799  110 

XLVII.          „                 „                         Dec.  1799  111 

CHAPTER   II. 

1800-1809. 
LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE,  MANNING,  AND  OTHERS. 

LETTER                                                                                                                        DATE  PAGE 

XLVIII.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  Jan.  2,  1800  113 

XLIX.  To  THOMAS  MANNING    .        .     Mar.  1,  1800  114 

L.           „                 „                          Mar.  17,  1800  115 

LI.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  May  12,  1800  116 

LII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING    .        (Before  June)  1800  117 

LIII.          „                 „            .        .     1800  118 

LIV.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  June  22,  1800  119 

LV.              „                        ,,                Aug.  6,  1800  120 

LVI.  To  THOMAS  MANNING    .        .     Aug.  1800  123 

LVII.          „                 „            .             1800  125 

LVIII.          „'                ,,            .             [Aug.  9,  1800]  127 

LIX.           „                 „                          Aug.  11,  1800  128 

LX.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  Aug.  14, 1800  129 

LXI.  To  THOMAS  MANNING    .        .    Aug.  22,  1800  132 

LXII.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  [Aug.orSep.]1800  134 

LXIII.              „                  .     „                Aug.  26,  1800  135 

LXIV.  To  THOMAS  MANNING    .        .    Oct.  5,  1800  139 

LXV.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  Oct.  9,  1800  140 

LXVI.  To  WORDSWORTH  .        .        .     Oct.  13,  1800  142 

LXVII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING    .        .     Oct.  16,  1800  143 


X  CONTENTS. 

LETTER                                                                                                       DATE  PAOF 

LXVIII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       .  Nov.  3,  1800  145 
LXIX.           „                 „                .  Nov.  28,  1800  143 
LXX.  To  WILLIAM  GODWIN       .  Dec.  4,  1800  149 
LXXI.          „                    „               .  Dec.  11,  1800  150 
LXXII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       .  Dec.  13,  1800  151 
LXXIII.  To  WILLIAM  GODWIN        .  Dec.  14,  1800  153 
LXXIV.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       .  Dec.  16,  1800  154 
LXXV.          „                 „               .  Dec.  27,  1800  157 
LXXVI.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLE- 
RIDGE           .         [No  date— end  of  1800]  159 
LXXVII.  To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  Jan.  1801  162 
LXXVIII.             „                        „  Jan.  30,  1801  164 
LXXIX.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       [Feb.  or  Mar.]  1801  166 
LXXX.          „                 „               .  April  1801  169 
LXXXI.  To  WILLIAM  GODWIN        .  June  29,  1801  170 
LXXXII.  To  MR.  WALTER  WILSON  .  Aug.  14,  1801  170 
LXXXIII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       .  [Aug.]  1801  171 
LXXXIV.           „                 „               .  Aug.  31,  1801  172 
LXXXV.  To  WILLIAM  GODWIN       .  Sept.  9,  1801  175 
LXXXVI.          „                   „             .  Sept.  17,  1801  177 
LXXXVII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING        .  Feb.  15,  1802  179 
LXXXVIII.  To  MR.  RICKMAN      .        .  April  10,  1802  180 
LXXXIX.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLE- 
RIDGE  ....  Sept.  8,  1802  180 
XC.  To  MRS.  GODWIN      .     [Early  in  Sept.  1802?]  181 
XCI.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       .  Sept  24,  1802  181 
XCII.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLE- 
RIDGE  ....  Oct.  9,  1802  185 
XCIII.            „                       „  Oct.  11,  1802  187 
XCIV.  Oct.  23,  1802  189 


LETTER 

xcv. 

XCVI. 

XCVII. 

XCVIII. 

XCIX. 

c. 

CI. 
OIL 

cm. 

CIV. 

cv. 

CVI. 

CVII. 

CVIII. 

CIX. 

I  CX. 

CXI. 

CXII. 

CXIII. 

CXIV. 

cxv. 

CXVI. 

CXVII. 

CXVIII. 

CXIX. 

cxx. 

CXXI. 


CONTENTS. 

To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLE- 
RIDGE   . 
To  THOMAS  MANNING 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLE- 
RIDGE  . 

j>  » 

To  THOMAS  MANNING  . 
To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLE- 
RIDGE  . 

To  MR.  RICKMAN 
To  WILLIAM  GODWIN  . 

i)  i>       •        • 

To  ROBERT  SOUTHEY  . 
To  THOMAS  MANNING  . 
To  Miss  WORDSWORTH 
To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
To  THOMAS  MANNING  . 
To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT         . 
To  THOMAS  MANNING  . 
To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT 
To  MR.  RICKMAN 
To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT 
To  MR.  RICKMAN 
To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT         . 
To  THOMAS  MANNING  . 
To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


XI 

DATE  PAGE 

Nov.  4,  1802  191 

Nov.  1802  193 

Feb.  19,  1803  194 

Feb.  1803  196 

Mar.  1803  198 

Mar.  20,  1803  199 

April  13,  1803  201 

April  23,  1803  202 

May  27,  1803  204 

July  16,  1803  206 

Nov.  8,  1803  207 

Nov.  10,  1803  207 

Nov.  7,  1804  209 

Feb.  24,  1805  210 

June  14,  1805  212 

June  26,  1805  215 

[July  27,  1805]  216 

Sept.  28,  1805  216 

Nov.  10,  1805  219 
[Nov.  15,  1805]  221 

Jan.  15,  1806  222 

Jan.  25, 1806  223 

Feb.  19,  1806  224 

Mar.  1806  226 

Mar.  15,  1806  227 

May  10,  1806  228 

June  1806  230 


3di  CONTENTS. 

LETTER                                                                                                          DATE  PAGE 

CXXII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING        .  Dec.  5,  1806  234 

CXXIII.  To  Miss  STODDART   .        .  Dec.  11  [1806]  239 

CXXIV.  To  WILLIAM  WOKDSWOETH  Dec.  11,  1806  239 

CXXV.  To  WILLIAM  GODWIN        .  1806  240 

CXXVI.  To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  Jan.  29,  1807  241 

CXXVII.  To  REV.  W.  HAZLITT        .  Feb.  18,  1808  242 

CXXVIII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       .  Feb.  26,  1808  243 

CXXIX.  To  WILLIAM  GODWIN       .  Mar.  11,  1808  247 

CXXX.  To  MRS.  HAZLITT     .        .  Dec.  10,  1808  248 


CHAPTER   III. 

1809-1816. 

LETTERS  TO  MANNING,  COLERIDGE,  WORDSWORTH, 
AND  OTHERS. 

LETTER                                                                                                        DATE  PAGE 

CXXXI.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       .     Mar.  28,  1809  249 
CXXXII.  To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLE- 
RIDGE ....     June  7,  1809  251 
CXXXIII.             „                        „            Oct.  30,  1809  254 
CXXXI V.  To  THOMAS  MANNING       .     Jan.  2,  1810  255 
CXXXV.  To  JOHN  MATHEW  GUTCH     [April  9,  1810]  259 
CXXX VI.  To  BASIL  MONTAGU  .        .    July  12,  1810  260 
CXXXVII.  To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT       .     [Aug.  9,  1810]  261 
CXXXVIII.  To  Miss  WORDSWORTH     .     [Aug.  1810]  262 
CXXXIX.  To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH    Oct.  19,  1810  262 
CXL.  To  Miss  WORDSWORTH     .     Nov.  23,  1810  264 
CXLI.  To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT       .    Nov.  28,  1810  265 
CXLII.  To  HENRY  CRABB  ROBINSON  [1810]  266 
CXLIII.  To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT       .     Oct.  2,  1811  267 


CONTENTS.  Xlil 

LETTER                                                                                                              DATE  PAGE 

CXLIV.  To  WILLIAM  GODWIN     .        .  [1811]      .  268 
CXLV.  To  SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLE- 
RIDGE      ....  Aug.  13,  1814  269 

CXLVI.  To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH    .  Aug.  14,  1814  271 
CXLVII.  To    SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLE- 
RIDGE      ....  Aug.  26,  1814  274 

CXLVIII.  To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH    .  Aug.  29,  1814  276 

CXLIX.             "                  "              .  1814  278 

CL.             "                  "              .  1814  280 

CLI.             "                  "              .  [1815]  283 

CLII.             "                  "              .  1815  286 

CLIII.  To  ROBERT  SOUTHEY      .        .  May  6,  1815  290 

CLIV.               "           "           .  Aug.  9,  1815  292 

CLV.  To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH    .  Aug.  9,  1815  294 

CLVI.  To  Miss  HUTCHINSON     ... ...  ,..  Oct.  19,  1815  297 

CLVII.  To  THOMAS  MANNING     .        .  Dec.  25,  1815  298 

CLVIII.              "           "            V      .  Dec.  26,  1815  300 

CLIX.  To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH    .  April  9,  1816  302 

CLX.              "                  "               .  April  26,  1816  304 

CLXI.  To  Miss  MATILDA  BETHAM     .  June  1,  1816  306 

CLXII.  To  H.  DODWELL     .        .        .  July,  1816  308 

NOTES    .  311 


VOL.  I. 


SONNET  TO  ELIA. 

THOU  gentle  Spirit,  sweet  and  pure  and  kind, 

Though  strangely  witted — "high  fantastical" — 

Who  clothest  thy  deep  feelings  in  a  pall 

Of  motley  hues,  that  twinkle  to  the  mind, 

Half  hiding,  and  yet  heightening,  what's  enshrined 

Within  ; — who  by  a  power  unknown  to  all 

Save  thee  alone,  canst  bring  up  at  a  call 

A  thousand  seeming  opposites.  entwined 

In  wondrous  brotherhood — fancy,  wild  wit, 

Quips,  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles,  with  deep  sweet  thought, 

And  stinging  jests,  with  honey  for  the  wound  ; 

All  blent  in  intermixture  full  and  fit, — 

A  banquet  for  the  choicest  souls  :— can  aught 

Repay  the  solace  which  from  thee  I've  found  ? 

J.    H.    (JOHN  HUXTER  OF  CRAIGCROOK) 

From  Friendship's  Offering,  1832. 


INTRODUCTION. 

As  I  have  elsewhere  told  the  story  of  Charles  Lamb's  life 
to  the  best  of  my  ability,  I  have  not  thought  it  neces-ary, 
in  editing  his  Letters,  to  tell  it  over  again  in  my  own 
words.  The  letters  themselves  contain  his  story — at 
least  from  the  year  when  he  came  of  age  and  began  in 
earnest  the  battle  of  his  difficult  and  lonely  life.  From 
the  year  1796  to  a  date  preceding  his  death  by  only  a  few 
days,  there  are  few  incidents  of  that  life  that  are  not 
related  or  referred  to  in  those  letters.  When  read  con- 
secutively, and  with  the  help  of  such  supplementary 
information  as  can  be  provided  in  notes,  they  form  an 
almost  complete  biography. 

Material  for  a  final  collection  of  Lamb's  Letters 
has  been  gradually  accumulating  since  the  appearance  of 
Talfourd's  well-known  volumes — the  Letters  of  Charles 
Lamb,  with  a  Sketch  of  his  Life,  in  1837,  and  the  Final 
Memorials  published  after  the  death  of  Mary  Lamb  in 
1848.  It  would  take  long  to  unfold  the  complicated 
history  of  the  various  editions  of  Lamb's  correspondence 
that  have  since  appeared.  No  change  in  the  form  of 
Talfourd's  work  would  seem  to  have  been  made  until  the 
year  1868,  when  an  edition  of  the  writings  of  Lamb  was 
published  by  Mr.  Moxon,  preceded  by  a  collection  of  the 
Letters,  freshly  arranged  according  to  the  persons  to 
whom  they  were  addressed.  This  edition  was  in  the  first 
instance  prefaced  by  an  "  Essay  on  the  Genius  of  Lamb  " 
from  the  hand  of  Mr.  G.  A.  Sala.  Two  years  later  the 
first  volume  was  withdrawn,  and  re-issued  with  a  substi- 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

tuted  Preface  by  Mr.  Thomas  Purnell.  This  edition  was 
in  its  turn  replaced  in  1875  by  another  in  six  volumes, 
bearing  the  name  of  the  same  publishers,  and  under  the 
editorship  of  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald.  In  this  last-named 
edition  the  narrative  portion  of  Talfourd'a  two  works 
was  retained,  digested  into  one  continuous  narrative, 
with  additions  both  in  the  text  and  notes.  The  Letters 
were  separated  from  Talfourd's  original  matter,  arranged 
(as  in  the  two  preceding  editions)  in  groups — the  Letters 
to  Coleridge  being  followed  by  those  addressed  to  Southey, 
and  so  forth.  Mr.  Fitzgerald  was  able  to  announce  that 
he  had  added  forty  new  letters  to  the  collection. 

More  than  ten  years  after  Mr.  Fitzgerald's  edition, 
Mr.  W.  C.  Hazlitt  edited  for  Mr.  George  Bell  a  fresh 
Life  and  Letters,  announced  as  Talfourd's,  "carefully 
revised  and  greatly  enlarged."  The  edition  consists  of 
Talfourd's  text,  freely  interspersed  with  original  matter, 
and  the  Letters  rearranged,  with  certain  additions  to 
their  number.  The  edition  has  this  advantage  over  Mr. 
Fitzgerald's  in  that  it  aims  at  giving  the  Letters  in 
chronological  order,  and  not  broken  up  into  groups  on  any 
other  plan.  But  I  certainly  cannot  think  that  Talfourd's 
work,  which,  whatever  be  its  defects,  has  long  taken  its 
place  as  an  English  Classic,  should  be  re-issued  under  its 
author's  name  after  additions  and  alterations  so  extensive 
have  been  introduced  into  it.  I  have  preferred,  therefore, 
to  omit  Talfourd's  own  narrative  altogether,  and  to  print 
the  Letters  only,  with  such  additions  to  their  number  as 
I  have  been  fortunate  in  obtaining,  and  in  chronological 
order,  so  far  as  their  dates  are  discoverable,  reserving  all 
elucidatory  matter  for  the  notes  at  the  end  of  the  respect- 
ive volumes. 

The  editors  of  Lamb's  Letters  who  have  succeeded 
Talfourd  have  been,  I  think,  unduly  severe  upon  his 
methods  of  procedure.  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  for  instance,  com- 
plains that  in  Talfourd's  hands  the  Letters  were  edited  "  in 
accordance  with  his  peculiar  views — being  cut  up,  altered, 
and  dealt  with  in  very  summary  fashion."  This  may  be 


INTRODUCTION.  XVU 

correct,  but  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that  the  former  of 
Talfourd's  two  works — the  Life  and  Letters  published  in 
1837 — was  produced  under  exceptionally  difficult  circum- 
stances. Charles  Lamb's  history  was  bound  up  with  that 
of  his  sister,  and  with  the  consequences  of  one  most 
terrible  event  in  her  life.  As  long  as  Mary  Lamb  sur- 
vived her  brother,  no  letters,  however  interesting,  which 
bore  upon  that  calamity  or  the  sacrifices  it  entailed,  or 
upon  the  frequent  recurrence  of  the  malady  in  the  life 
of  the  sister,  could  be  printed  without  large  omissions. 
Hence  the  Letters  in  the  volumes  of  1837  were  in  many 
cases  fragments  only,  and  made  no  claim  to  be  anything 
else. 

After  the  death  of  Mary  Lamb  in  1847  the  fuller 
narrative  of  the  sad  fortunes  of  the  brother  and  sister, 
vaguely  hinted  in  the  Preface  to  the  former  volumes, 
became  possible.  It  is  easy  to  pronounce  upon  the  course 
Talfourd  ought  to  have  pursued.  He  should  have  pre- 
pared a  new  edition  of  his  former  book,  adding  new 
letters  and  restoring  the  omitted  passages  with  such 
additional  explanatory  matter  of  his  own  as  would  have 
made  the  whole  intelligible.  Talfourd  was  evidently 
aware  that  this  would  have  been  the  simplest  and  most 
satisfactory  course,  and  apologises  for  not  adopting  it  on 
the  ground  that  it  would  be  unfair  to  purchasers  of  the 
former  work.  He  therefore  chose  the  alternative  plan  of 
a  second  collection  of  letters  with  fresh  connecting  matter. 
But  unfortunately  he  too  often  supplied  the  missing  por- 
tions of  letters  with  no  indication  of  those  in  his  former 
book  to  which  they  belonged.  This  was,  beyond  all 
question,  a  grave  error  of  judgment,  and  the  conse- 
quence was  that  if  Talfourd's  former  work  had  of  neces- 
sity a  "  scrappy  "  character,  for  reasons  that  were  entitled 
to  all  respect,  the  second  work  was  more  fragmentary 
still.  The  charge  against  Talfourd  of  "cutting  and 
carving"  must  at  least,  therefore,  be  made  with  due 
allowance  for  the  difficulties  of  his  position.  For  Mr. 
Fitzgerald's  further  complaint  that  Talfourd  "altered" 


XV111  INTRODUCTION. 

the  Letters,  a  different  defence  must  be  found.  It  ia 
certainly  true  that  here  and  there,  though  very  rarely, 
Lamb  makes  use  in  writing  of  certain  freedoms  of  expres- 
sion— principally  of  the  expletive  kind — which  were 
common  enough  in  letters  and  in  conversation  eighty 
years  since,  but  are  now  happily  out  of  fashion.  If 
Talfourd,  on  a  principle  long  ago  accepted  as  sound, 
that  such  expletives  have  "  had  their  day,"  ventured  to 
soften  them  down  into  more  harmless  equivalents,  I  yet 
cannot  agree  with  Mr.  Fitzgerald  that  any  serious  treason 
against  Lamb  was  committed  in  so  doing.  As  to  the 
omissions  or  changes  of  other  kinds — of  passages  bearing 
upon  persons  then  still  living,  or  of  intimate  confidences 
as  to  the  writer's  own  self,  the  publication  of  which  must 
always  be  matter  for  editorial  discretion  —  Talfourd 
showed  himself  neither  t»mid  nor  capricious.  I  am  not 
speaking  without  good  reason.  The  autographs  of  two  of 
the  most  important  series  of  letters — those  to  Manning 
and  those  to  Bernard  BartoTi — have  been  in  my  hands, 
and  except  for  the  mutilations  already  referred  to,  made 
necessary  by  the  Mary  Lamb  difficulty,  I  can  testify  that 
omissions  or  changes  due  to  Talfourd  are  not  only  insigni- 
ficant in  amount,  but  were  at  the  time  amply  justifiable. 
Many  of  such  omissions  have  been  since  Talfourd's  day 
supplied,  and  I  have  been  able  to  restore  some  passages 
and  correct  others  in  the  present  edition. 

A  more  important  defect  in  Talfourd's  method  as 
editor  must,  however,  be  admitted.  It  certainly  could  never 
have  been  an  easy  task  to.  determine  th*e  dates  of  Lamb's 
various  letters.  He  rarely  dated  a  letter,  especially  in 
early  life,  and  postmarks  are  too  often  torn  or  illegible. 
To  arrange  the  Letters,  therefore,  in  anything  like  chrono- 
logical order  must  have  been,  as  it  is  still,  matter  of  great 
difficulty.  But  Talfourd,  we  must  agree,  might  have 
come  something  nearer  to  success.  Even  where  the  post- 
marks existed,  he  does  not  seem  to  have  noticed  them, 
or  to  have  cared  for  any  more  precise  reference  to  a  letter 
than  that  it  was  written  "  about  this  time."  Sometimes, 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

even  in  the  absence  of  both  date  and  postmark,  refer- 
ences in  the  Letters  to  incidents  in  the  lives  of  Lamb  or 
his  correspondent  might  have  saved  the  editor  from  many 
errors.  A  single  illustration  of  this  may  suffice.  In 
the  summer  of  1797  Coleridge  was  living  at  Nether 
Stowey,  \vhither  he  had  betaken  himself,  with  his  young 
friend  Charles  Lloyd,  to  be  near  Thomas  Poole,  who  had 
his  tannery  hard  by.  Cruikshank  and  his  wife  were 
there,  and  Citizen  Thelwall  was  not  far  off.  Wordsworth 
and  his  sister,  from  Racedown,  were  on  a  visit,  and 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb — the  former  little  more  than 
a  youth  of  twenty- two — joined  the  party  to  spend  their 
brief  holiday.  It  was  during  this  visit  that  Coleridge, 
having  injured  his  leg,  and  being  thus  prevented  from 
joining  his  friends  in  an  excursion,  stayed  at  home  and 
wrote  the  lines,  familiar  to  all  lovers  of  Coleridge  and 
Lamb — "  This  Lime-tree  Bower  my  prison,"  containing 
touching  reference  to  both  Lamb  and  his  sister.  The 
poem  was  printed  soon  after  in  the  Annual  Anthology  at 
Bristol,  with  a  prefatory  note  relating  the  circumstances. 
After  Lamb's  return  to  London  he  writes  Coleridge  a 
letter  (see  vol.  i.  p.  79  of  this  edition)  referring  to  this 
visit,  to  Coleridge's  accident,  to  Poole,  Wordsworth,  and 
the  rest,  and  to  the  incident  of  little  Hartley  Coleridge 
cutting  his  teeth.  This  letter  Talfourd  placed  three  years 
later,  in  1800,  and  no  subsequent  editor  has  corrected 
the  mistake.  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  errors 
are  not  always  so  easy  to  amend  as  in  this  instance.  In- 
ternal evidence  is  not  always  present  to  supplement  the 
external,  and  after  careful  examination  and  balancing  of 
probabilities,  I  have  had  to  leave  many  letters,  notably 
of  the  period  between  1800  and  1802,  with  many  misgiv- 
ings as  to  the  place  finally  assigned  to  them.  The 
originals  of  the  Letters  to  Coleridge,  I  should  add,  are  dis- 
persed, and  no  longer  accessible  for  purposes  of  collation. 
The  autographs  of  the  Manning  Letters  have  been  in 
my  hands,  through  the  kindness  of  their  owner,  the  Rev. 
C.  R.  Manning,  Rector  of  Diss,  the  nephew  of  the  famous 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

orientalist  and  traveller.  Among  these  I  have  been  so 
fortunate  as  to  find  several  not  before  printed, — one  of 
singular  interest,  containing  Lamb's  criticism  on  the 
second  volume  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  and  an  account 
of  the  passage  at  arms  between  himself  and  the  author 
of  the  volume.  Talfourd  suppressed  the  letter,  there  can 
be  no  doubt,  because  Wordsworth  was  then  still  living. 
It  came  under  my  notice  too  late  for  insertion  in  its 
place  in  the  text  of  the  correspondence,  but  I  have  found 
room  for  it  in  my  notes.  Some  new  letters  to  Manning 
of  later  date  will  be  found  in  their  proper  places.  The 
Barton  Letters  1  have  also  carefully  examined  with  the 
valuable  assistance  of  Bernard  Barton's  daughter,  Mrs. 
Edward  Fitzgerald,  who  has  also  favoured  me  with  much 
interesting  information  throwing  light  upon  allusions 
occurring  in  the  letters.  To  Mrs.  Procter  I  have  to 
express  my  warm  acknowledgments  for  entrusting  me 
with  the  originals  of  the  letters  to  her  husband  ("Barry 
Cornwall"),  from  which  I  have  been  able  to  make  both 
corrections  and  additions.  To  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke  (the 
Mary  Victoria  Novello  of  the  Letters)  I  am  also  deeply 
indebted  for  her  "cordial  permission"  to  include  in  this 
edition  the  Letters  of  Lamb  to  her  husband,  and  to  her 
father,  Vincent  Novello,  first  printed  in  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Cowden  Clarke's  interesting  Recollections  of  Writers. 

Other  letters,  as  yet  unpublished,  will  be  found  in  the 
present  edition.  A  series  addressed  to  Mr.  J.  B.  Dibdin 
I  am  able  to  include,  by  the  kindness  of  his  nephew,  Mr. 
R.  W.  Dibdin.  Readers  of  Lamb's  correspondence  may 
remember  a  reference  to  this  gentleman,  "  the  grandson 
of  the  songster,"  as  having  died  early  of  consumptioa 
after  seeking  in  vain  the  restorative  climate  of  Madeira. 
I  have  told  in  my  notes  the  story  of  Lamb's  chance 
introduction  to  the  young  man,  to  whom  he  was  thence- 
forth drawn  by  kindred  literary  tastes,  and  even  more 
by  that  which  always  deeply  moved  Charles  Lamb, — the 
sight  of  patient  suffering  or  struggle.  Mr.  Dibdin, 
a  clerk  in  a  city  merchant's  house,  was  often  obliged  to 


INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

visit  some  southern  watering-place  for  his  health,  and 
most  of  the  present  letters  were  evidently  composed  by 
Lamb  with  the  single  object  of  amusing  his  friend,  and 
relieving  for  a  moment  the  tedium  of  his  enforced  idle- 
ness. It  is  as  such  that  these  letters  must  be  judged. 
If  their  fun  is  at  times  of  the  most  extravagant,  the  true 
kindness  of  heart  that  prompted  them  will  not  be  over- 
looked. 

It  will  be  seen  that  I  have  not  attempted  to  make 
this  edition  of  Lamb's  Letters  "  complete,"  in  the  sense 
of  having  retained  all  the  notes  (or  "notelets,"  as  they 
have  been  called)  included  in  former  collections.  It 
happens  to  any  man  of  mark  and  genius,  such  as  Charles 
Lamb,  that  his  most  trivial  notes  are  naturally  preserved 
by  correspondents  as  autographs,  but  it  assuredly  does  not 
follow  that  they  are  therefore  worth  printing.  Dozens  of 
hasty  notes  written  by  Lamb  are  extant,  but  it  seems  to 
me  little  short  of  an  insult  to  his  memory  and  to  his 
readers  to  fill  page  after  page  with  communications,  of 
which  the  following  is  a  sample  : — 

"  DEAR  A. — I  am  better.  Mary  quite  well.  We  ex- 
pected to  see  you  before.  I  can't  write  long  letters.  So  a 
friendly  love  to  you  all." 

At  the  same  time  I  have  not  lightly  omitted  any  scrap 
of  a  note  containing  a  characteristic  flash  of  humour 
or  felicity  of  expression,  or  supplying  any  link  in  the 
chain  of  incidents  that  made  up  his  own  life  or  Mary's. 
Even  now,  when  finally  parting  from  a  task  that  has 
employed  my  leisure  for  some  years,  I  feel  reluctant 
altogether  to  omit  certain  fragments — illustrations  of  that 
rare  union  of  tenderness,  humour,  and  invention — that  for 
various  reasons  have  not  found  a  place  in  the  text  of  these 
volumes.  In  an  early  note  to  Manning  (January  1800) 
occurs  one  more  of  the  many  touching  tributes  to  his 
early  friend,  his  "guardian  angel":  "I  have  given  up 
my  house  and  must  look  out  for  lodgings.  I  expect 
Mary  will  get  better  before  many  weeks  are  gone ;  but 


Xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

at  present  I  feel  my  daily  and  hourly  prop  has  fallen 
from  me.  I  totter  and  stagger  with  weakness,  for  nobody 
can  supply  her  place  to  me.  White  has  all  kindness,  but 
not  sympathy.  C.  Lloyd,  my  only  correspondent,  you 
except,  is  a  good  being,  but  a  weak  one.  I  know  not 
where  to  look  but  to  you.  If  you  will  suffer  me  to 
weary  your  shoulders  with  part  of  my  burden,  I  shall 
write  again  to  let  you  know  how  I  go  on." 

He  is  in  a  more  cheerful  mood  in  another  letter  of 
the  same  year  to  the  same  correspondent,  in  which  occurs 
this  passage  (not  without  interest  just  now  in  its  pro- 
phecies and  speculations)  :  "By  the  way,  I  am  anxious  to 
get  specimens  of  all  English  turkeys.  Pray  send  me  at 
your  leisure  separate  specimens  from  every  county  in 
Great  Britain,  including  Wales,  for  I  hate  nationalities. 
The  Irish  turkeys  I  will  let  alone  till  the  union  is 
determined."  And,  finally,  I  cannot  keep  back  the  droll 
and  wonderful  imagination  of  the  following — an  extract 
from  a  letter  to  Mr.  Procter.  Lamb,  who  was  himself 
always  writing  verses  for  his  young  friends'  albums, 
wanted  Procter  to  do  the  same  kind  office  for  a  young 
lady  in  whose  veins  was  a  tinge  of  blood  darker  than 
European.  Assuming  that  Procter  might  make  his  verses 
a  vehicle  for  some  compliments,  Lamb  writes :  "  And 
now,  Procter,  I  will  tell  you  a  story.  Hierocles,  the 
Sicilian  Tyrant,  who  lived  in  the  thirtieth  Olympiad,  just 
seven  hundred  and  sixty  years  ante  A.D.,  by  the  Gregorian 
Computation,  having  won  the  Prize  in  a  Race  of  Mules, 
besought  the  Poet  Simonides,  with  the  incentive  moreover 
of  a  donative  of  1200  Sesterces,  which  might  be  about 
£12  : 7  :  3^  of  our  money,  to  write  him  an  Olympic 
Hymn  in  praise  of  the  mules.  But  Simonides,  declining 
to  vulgarise  his  Muse  with  the  mention  of  any  such 
mongrels,  the  Tyrant  (which  signifies  in  the  Greek  of 
that  age  only  king)  rounds  him  in  the  ear  that  he  shall 
have  8000  sesterces  if  he  will  touch  up  his  beasts  hand- 
somely. Whereupon  Simonides — the  'tender  Simonides,' 
as  antiquity  delights  to  phrase  him — began  to  relent,  and 


INTRODUCTION.  XX111 

stringing  his  golden  lyre  begins  a  lofty  ode  to  the  cattle 
with — 

'  Hail !  daughters  of  the  swift-winged  steed. ' 
Sinking,  you  see,  one  part  of  their  genealogy.  Now  for 
the  application.  What  I  told  you,  dear  Procter,  about 
my  young  friend  was  nothing  but  the  exact  truth.  But 
I  sunk  the  circumstance  that  her  mother  was  a  negro,  or 
half-caste — which  convinces  me,  what  I  always  thought, 
that  something  of  the  tender  genius  of  Simonides  lives 
again  in  my  strains.  Mary  corrects  me,  and  will  have  it 
that  the  lady's  mother  was  a  Hindostanee  half-caste,  and 
no  negress,  but  was  I  to  send  you  wool-gathering  over  the 
vast  plains  watered  by  the  Ganges,  or  the  more  bewilder- 
ing wilds  of  Thnbuctoo,  to  search  for  images'?"  There 
is  genius  in  nonsense  such  as  this.  I  have  willingly 
suppressed  no  "  fooling "  of  this  kind ;  but  notes  of 
invitation  to  a  supper  party,  or  acceptance  of  one,  have  no 
justification  for  appearing  merely  because  they  were  once 
in  Charles  Lamb's  handwriting. 

I  have  elsewhere  spoken  of  the  peculiar  value  and 
interest  of  the  literary  and  other  criticism  scattered 
through  these  Letters,  and  I  may  be  permitted  to  repeat 
here  a  few  sentences.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  intel- 
lectual accomplishment  in  Lamb  which  asserts  itself 
earliest  is  just  that  which  ordinarily  it  takes  years,  with 
their  increased  reading  and  experience,  to  mature — the 
critical  faculty.  Lamb's  earliest  letters  that  have  sur- 
vived begin  when  he  was  just  of  age,  and  his  two  chief 
correspondents  for  the  next  three  years  were  young  men 
like  himself — one  his  schoolfellow,  Samuel  Taylor  Cole- 
ridge, three  years  his  senior ;  and  the  other,  whom  he  had 
come  to  know  through  Coleridge,  and  who  was  associated 
with  Coleridge  by  so  many  ties,  Robert  Southey.  All 
three  were  starting  on  a  literary  career,  full  of  ambition ; 
two  of  them  with  the  intention  of  making  it  their  pro- 
fession, the  other,  happily  for  himself,  settling  down  to 
that  desk  in  Leadenhall  Street  which  was  to  prove, 
though  he  knew  it  not,  his  best  blessing  and  safeguard 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

for  thirty  years  to  come.  Apart  from  the  family  matters 
— sad  and  terrible  they  were — discussed  in  these  Letters, 
the  chief  topics  dealt  with  are  literary  and  critical. 
Coleridge  and  Southey  forward  to  their  friend  their 
verses,  their  lyrics  and  eclogues,  for  his  judgment  and 
suggestions  ;  and  he  in  turn  submits  to  them  his  sonnets 
and  elegies,  plaintive  and  tender  after  his  model,  William 
Lisle  Bowles.  Coleridge  and  Southey,  endowed  with  a 
poetic  gift  far  stronger  and  richer  than  Lamb's,  yet  at 
once  recognise  in  their  companion — no  University  man 
like  themselves,  lowly  in  his  home  and  traditions,  humble 
in  his  life's  occupation — this  rare  and  precious  gift  of 
critical  insight.  These  earliest  letters  of  Lamb  show 
how  amply  justified  was  their  confidence  in  his  powers. 
If  the  art  or  science  of  poetical  criticism  could  be  made 
matter  of  instruction,  I  know  no  better  introduction  to 
the  study  than  these  scattered  criticisms  of  his,  first  upon 
Coleridge's  and  Southey's  verse,  then  upon  Wordsworth's, 
and  generally  upon  all  poetry  ancient  or  modern  quoted 
or  referred  to  in  the  Letters.  Lamb  was  one  of  the  very 
first  to  detect  the  great  powers  and  the  real  importance 
of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  before  the  wit  of  the  Anti- 
Jacobin  and  "  English  Bards "  had  opened  its  batteries 
upon  these  poets,  and  while  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly 
Reviews  were  yet  unborn.  This  boy  of  twenty-one  was 
already  showing  that,  together  with  the  keenest  eye  for 
the  weaker  side  of  these  poetical  reformers,  and  with  a 
true  humorist's  enjoyment  of  what  was  absurd  or  puerile 
in  their  methods,  that  enjoyment  in  no  way  disturbed  his 
appreciation  of  their  genius.  With  all  his  prejudices  and 
petulances  (and  Lamb  had  plenty  of  these),  the  dis- 
tinguishing feature  of  his  critical  power  is  its  width  and 
its  versatility.  The  deepest  of  all  his  literary  affections, 
that  for  Milton,  no  more  interfered  with  his  intense  enjoy- 
ment of  Pope,  than  did  his  delight  in  Pope  delay  for  an 
instant  his  recognition  of  the  worth  of  Cowper,  Burns, 
and  their  successors.  Lamb  is  our  best  and  wholesomest 
example  of  that  rare  capacity  for  valuing  and  enjoying 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

one  literary  school  without  at  the  same  time  disparaging  its 
opposites.  And  he  could  recognise  that  the  same  writer 
often  rises  above,  and  often  sinks  below,  himself.  He 
laughs  as  frankly  at  what  was  namby-pamby  in  Coleridge 
and  Wordsworth  as  he  descants  with  enthusiasm  on  the 
Ancient  Mariner  and  the  "  Lines  written  above  Tin  tern 
Abbey." 

Nor  is  it  only  on  the  great  men — the  Coleridges  and 
Wordsworths — that  Lamb's  criticism  is  so  instructive. 
Scarcely  anything  was  too  poor  or  insignificant,  if  written 
by  a  friend  or  by  one  who  needed  his  friendship,  for  him 
to  exercise  his  critical  faculty  upon ;  and  if  in  the  dead 
waste  of  Joseph  Cottle's  blank -verse  a  redeeming  line 
appears,  Lamb  detects  it  .on  the  spot,  and  by  his  words 
of  approval  almost  imprints  the  stamp  of  classicality 
upon  the  poem.  If  he  says  almost  the  best  thing  possible 
about  Cervantes,  he  does  not  disdain  to  do  the  same 
thing  for  the  author  of  the  Farmer's  Boy.  But  it  is  not 
only  about  books  that  Lamb's  judgments  are  so  acute. 
As  we  pass  from  letter  to  letter  in  this  collection,  nothing 
will  strike  us  more  than  the  transition  from  wildest 
burlesque  to  the  nicest  and  most  delicate  estimates  of 
human  conduct.  Even  in  the  same  letter,  as  in  one 
to  Mr.  Basil  Montagu  on  the  proposal  to  erect  a  monu- 
ment to  Clarkson  in  his  lifetime,  the  two  sides  of  the 
writer  appear  in  a  contrast  almost  startling.  It  is  the 
letter  in  which  he  says  that  he  should  not  like  his  name 
to  be  absent  from  the  list  of  subscribers,  if  the  project 
were  carried  out,  but  adds,  "  Otherwise  I  frankly  own 
that  to  pillarise  a  man's  good  feelings  in  his  life-time  is 
not  to  my  taste.  Monuments  to  goodness,  even  after  death, 
are  equivocal.  Goodness  blows  no  trumpet,  nor  desires 
to  have  It  blown.  We  should  be  modest  for  a  modest 
man,  as  he  is  for  himself.  The  vanities  of  life — art, 
poetry,  skill  military — are  subjects  for  trophies;  not 
the  silent  thoughts  arising  in  a  good  man's  mind  in  lonely 
places."  This  ethical  good  taste  that  appears  whenever 
Lamb's  opinion  is  seriously  called  for,  is  one  of  the  many 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

pleasures  and  surprises,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  to  be 
enjoyed  by  those  who  think  of  Lamb  mainly  as  a  jester, 
who  did  not  always  observe  a  corresponding  moderation 
in  his  jests. 

In  certain  respects  I  have  tried  to  improve  upon 
Talfourd's  method  as  an  editor  of  these  Letters.  But  I 
have  little  sympathy  with  those  who  have  spoken  slight- 
ingly of  the  obligations  he  has  laid  upon  all  lovers  of 
Charles  Lamb.  Least  of  all  can  I  understand  the  covert 
charges  against  him  of  having,  in  the  interest  of  his  friend, 
over-coloured  his  virtues  or  concealed  any  of  his  frailties 
or  foibles.  When  Talfourd  put  together  the  Final 
Memorials  after  the  death  of  Mary  Lamb  in  1847,  he 
attempted  a  fresh  estimate  of  Lamb's  character,  as  affected 
by  the  evidence  of  facts  then  for  the  first  time  pub- 
lished to  the  world.  He  headed  these  last  pages,  "  Lamb 
fully  known."  I  believe  that  those  who  know  Lamb  best 
must  acknowledge  both  the  generosity  and  the  discrimi- 
nating justice  of  this  estimate.  It  may  be  true  that  a 
certain  daintiness,  a  certain  hothouse  flavour,  in  Talfourd's 
style  is  a  little  out  of  keeping  with  his  subject,  but  it 
certainly  is  not  for  the  critical  fashions  of  this  age  to  look 
back  scornfully  on  the  "  preciosity  "  of  forty  years  since. 
But  if  Talfourd  wraps  up  his  judgments  with  something 
of  an  over-elegant  elaboration,  these  judgments  appear  to 
me  for  the  most  part  admirable.  And  although  the 
number  of  Lamb's  collected  letters  has  largely  grown  in 
the  last  forty  years,  and  his  scattered  writings  have  been 
collected  and  published,  no  record  has  "  leaped  to  light " 
which  need  in  any  degree  modify  the  estimate  then  formed. 

It  was  remarked  by  Mr.  Sala,  that  among  the  reasons 
for  Lamb's  memory  enduring  among  us,  is  the  circumstance 
that  "  he  was  passionately  loved  by  his  friends.  He  had, 
not  one,  but  half-a-dozen  Boswells."  This  is  certainly 
true.  We  know  Lamb  as  he  was  known  to  troops  of  friends 
the  most  various  in  character  and  genius.  Either  in 
prose  or  verse,  or  both,  we  possess  descriptions,  estimates, 
anecdotes  of  Lamb  from  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Hood, 


INTRODUCTION.  XXVI I 

Procter.  Landor,  Hazlitt,  Leigh  Hunt.  Talfourd,  Patmore, 
and  many  others ;  and  through  all  these  eyes,  we  see 
one  and  the  same  man.  The  same  rare  and  sterling 
qualities  impress  all  these  alike.  There  are  some  forgotten 
verses  by  that  friend  of  Lamb's  earlier  days,  Charles  Lloyd, 
written  in  1820, — verses  often  obscure  and  sounding 
curious  depths  of  bathos,  but  not  without  gleams  of  poetry 
and  genuine  insight.  They  are  called  "Desultory 
thoughts  in  London,"  and  include,  among  other  such 
thoughts,  an  elaborate  tribute  to  Coleridge,  and  a 
description  of  Lloyd's  other  dearest  friend,  Charles  Lamb. 
No  names  are  mentioned,  but  the  allusions  are  unmis- 
takable. Lloyd  could  only  then  hint  at  the  sorrows  of 
his  friend's  early  life  : — 

"  He  walked  along  his  path  in  steadiness, 
In  solitude,  and  in  sublimity ; 
None  ever  knew  his  desolate  distress, 
And  none  shall  ever  know  it  now  from  me." 

And  when,  after  many  stanzas  of  strange  digression, 
he  comes  back  to  his  theme : 

"  And  now,  my  friend,  I  turn  again  to  thee, 
Thou  pure  receptacle  of  all  that's  good  ! " 

he  admits  that  Lamb  has  "contrived  an  art"  he  had 
never  conceived  as  possible  : 

"  The  child  of  impulse  ever  to  appear, 
And  yet  through  duty's  path  strictly  to  steer. 

"  Nay  more,  thou  hast  contrived  to  be  that  child, 
And  not  alone  hast  held,  through  duty's  path, 
In  lofty  unimpeachableness,  and  mild, 
Thy  way — but  through  strange  suffering  and  scathe 
Of  worldly  comfort,  hast  been  unbeguiled 
Of  life's  first  innocence  : — God's  blessing  hath — 
Like  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego — 
Through  fiery  furnace  made  thee  safely  go." 

There  is  no  mistaking  tributes  such  as  these  for  the 
mere  language  of  literary  compliment.  There  was  no 
conspiracy  among  Landor  and  Lloyd,  Wordsworth  and 
Thomas  Hood,  Coleridge  and  Procter,  to  uphold  the 


XXVlii  INTRODUCTION. 

reputation  of  a  favourite  member  of  their  clique.  When 
we  read  such  words,  we  know  that  they  mean  what 
they  say,  and  that  they  are  true.  And  it  is  because 
I  believe  that  Talfourd  justly  interpreted  the  char- 
acter of  his  hero,  and  was  in  full  harmony  with  the 
judgments  of  those  other  friends  of  Lamb,  that  I  have 
ventured  to  add  these  few  words  in  his  vindication. 

To  the  names  already  mentioned  of  those  to  whom 
I  am  indebted  for  many  kind  services,  I  must  add  that 
of  Mr.  George  Bentley  of  New  Burlington  Street,  for  the 
use  of  an  unpublished  letter;  of  Mr.  C.  Kegan  Paul, 
for  permission  to  include  the  Letters  of  Lamb  to 
Godwin,  originally  printed  in  Mr.  Paul's  Life  of  William 
Godwin:  of  Messrs.  Longmans,  and  the  editor  of  the 
Century  Magazine  and  Mr.  R.  S.  Chilton,  for  a  like  per- 
mission to  use  letters  addressed  respectively  to  Miss 
Matilda  Betham  and  to  Mr.  John  Howard  Payne.  Mr. 
B.  M 'George  of  Glasgow  kindly  collated  two  of  the  letters 
here  given  with  originals  in  his  possession ;  and  my  old 
friend  Dr.  Edward  Calvert  of  Shrewsbury  has  taken  a 
lively  interest  in  extracting  meanings  and  allusions  from 
some  of  Lamb's  rather  frolicsome  Latin.  And  I  owe  a 
final  word  of  special  gratitude  to  Mr.  James  Dykes 
Campbell,  who  has  allowed  me  to  consult  him  throughout, 
and  whose  minute  and  exact  knowledge  of  all  matters 
touching  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and  Lamb,  has  materially 
enriched  my  notes. 

ALFRED  AINGEB. 

HAMPSTEAD,  November  1887. 


LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

CHAPTER  I. 

1796-1800. 
LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE,   SOUTHEY,  AND  MANNING. 


LETTER  I.]  May  27,  1796. 

DEAR  COLERIDGE — Make  yourself  perfectly  easy  about 
May.  I  paid  his  bill  when  I  sent  your  clothes.  I  was 
flush  of  money,  and  am  so  still  to  all  the  purposes  of  a 
single  life ;  so  give  yourself  no  further  concern  about  it. 
The  money  would  be  superfluous  to  me  if  I  had  it. 

When  Southey  becomes  as  modest  as  his  predecessor, 
Milton,  and  publishes  his  Epics  in  duodecimo,  I  will  read 
'em  ;  a  guinea  a  book  is  somewhat  exorbitant,  nor  have 
I  the  opportunity  of  borrowing  the  work.  The  extracts 
from  it  in  the  Monthly  Review,  and  the  short  passages  in 
your  Watchman,  seem  to  me  much  superior  to  any  thing 
in  his  partnership  account  with  Lovell.  Your  poems  I 
shall  procure  forthwith.  There  were  noble  lines  in  what 
you  inserted  in  one  of  your  Numbers  from  Religious 
Musings;  but  I  thought  them  elaborate.  I  am  some- 
what glad  you  have  given  up  that  paper  :  it  must  have 
&  B 


2  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LA3IB. 

been  dry,  unprofitable,  and  of  "  dissonant  mood  "  to  your 
disposition.  I  wish  you  success  in  all  your  undertakings, 
and  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  employed  about  the  Evidences 
of  Religion.  There  is  need  of  multiplying  such  books  a 
hundredfold  in  this  philosophical  age,  to  prevent  converts 
to  atheism,  for  they  seem  too  tough  disputants  to  meddle 
with  afterwards. 

Le  Grice  is  gone  to  make  puns  in  Cornwall.  He  has 
got  a  tutorship  to  a  young  boy  living  with  his  mother,  a 
•widow  lady.  He  will,  of  course,  initiate  him  quickly  in 
"whatsoever  things  are  honest,  lovely,  and  of  good 
report."  He  has  cut  Miss  Hunt  completely :  the  poor 
girl  is  very  ill  on  the  occasion ;  but  he  laughs  at  it,  and 
justifies  himself  by  saying,  "she  does  not  see  me  laugh." 
Coleridge,  I  know  not  what  suffering  scenes  you  have 
gone  through  at  Bristol.  My  life  has  been  somewhat 
diversified  of  late.  The  six  weeks  that  finished  last  year 
and  began  this,  your  very  humble  servant  spent  very 
agreeably  in  a  madhouse,  at  Hoxton.  I  am  got  some- 
what rational  now,  and  don't  bite  any  one.  But  mad  I 
was ;  and  many  a  vagary  my  imagination  played  with 
me,  enough  to  make  a  volume,  if  all  were  told.  My 
Sonnets  I  have  extended  to  the  number  of  nine  since  I 
saw  you,  and  will  some  day  communicate  to  you.  I  am 
beginning  a  poem  in  blank  verse,  which,  if  I  finish,  I 
publish.  White  is  on  the  eve  of  publishing  (he  took  the 
hint  from  Vortigerri)  "Original  letters  of  Falstaff,  Shal- 
low," etc.;  a  copy  you  shall  have  when  it  comes  out. 
They  are  without  exception  the  best  imitations  I  ever 
saw.  Coleridge,  it  may  convince  you  of  my  regards  for 
you  when  I  tell  you  my  head  ran  on  you  in  my  madness, 
as  much  almost  as  on  another  person,  who  I  am  inclined 
to  think  was  the  more  immediate  cause  of  my  temporary 
frenzy. 

The  Sonnet  I  send  you  has  small  merit  as  poetry; 
but  you  will  be  curious  to  read  it  when  I  tell  you  it 
was  written  in  my  prison-house  in  one  of  my  lucid 
intervals. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  3 

TO  MY  SISTER. 

If  from  my  lips  some  angry  accents  fill, 
Peevish  complaint,  or  harsh  reproof  unkind) 
'Twas  but  the  error  of  a  sickly  mind 

And  troubled  thoughts,  clouding  the  purer  well 
And  waters  clear  of  Reason  ;  and  for  me, 
Let  this  my  verse  the  poor  atonement  be — 
My  verse,  which  thou  to  praise  wert  e'er  inclined 
Too  highly,  and  with  a  partial  eye  to  see 

No  blemish.     Thou  to  me  didst  ever  show 

Kindest  affection  ;  and  would' st  oft-times  lend 
An  ear  to  the  desponding  love-sick  lay, 
Weeping  my  sorrows  with  me,  who  repay 

But  ill  the  mighty  debt  of  love  I  owe, 
Mary,  to  thee,  my  sister  and  my  friend. 

With   these   lines,    and   with   that    sister's    kindest 

remembrances  to  C ,  I  cou  elude. 

Yours  sincerely,  LAMB. 

Your  Condones  ad  Populum  are  the  most  eloquent 
politics  that  ever  came  in  my  way. 

Write  when  convenient — not  as  a  task,  for  there  is 
nothing  in  this  letter  to  answer. 

We  cannot  send  our  remembrances  to  Mrs.  C.,  not 
having  seen  her,  but  believe  me  our  best  good  wishes 
attend  you  both. 

My  civic  and  poetic  compliments  to  Southey  if  at 
Bristol.  Why,  he  is  a  very  Leviathan  of  Bards  1 — the 
small  minnow,  1 1 


LETTER  II.]  [No  Month]  1796. 

I  am  in  such  violent  pain  with  the  headache,  that 
I  am  fit  for  nothing  but  transcribing,  scarce  for  that. 
When  I  get  your  poems,  and  the  Joan  of  Arc,  I  will 
exercise  my  presumption  in  giving  you  my  opinion  of  'em. 
The  mail  does  not  come  in  before  to-morrow  (Wednesday) 
morning.  The  following  Sonnet  was  composed  during  a 
walk  down  into  Hertfordshire  early  in  last  Summer : — 


4  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

The  Lord  of  Light  shakes  off  his  drowsyhed. 

Fresh  from  his  couch  up  springs  the  lusty  sun, 

Aud  girds  himself  his  mighty  race  to  run  ; 
Meantime,  by  truant  love  of  rambling  led, 
I  turn  my  back  on  thy  detested  walls, 

Proud  City,  and  thy  sons  I  leave  behind, 

A  selfish,  sordid,  money-getting  kind, 
Who  shut  their  ears  when  holy  Freedom  calls. 
I  pass  not  thee  so  lightly,  humble  spire, 

That  mindest  me  of  many  a  pleasure  gone, 

Of  merriest  days,  of  Love  and  Islington, 
Kindling  anew  the  flames  of  past  desire  ; 

And  I  shall  muse  on  thee,  slow  journeying  on, 
To  the  green  plains  of  pleasant  Hertfordshire. 

The  last  line  is  a  copy  of  Bowles's,  "To  the  green 
Hamlet  in  the  peaceful  Plain."  Your  ears  are  not  so 
very  fastidious;  many  people  would  not  like  words  so 
prosaic  and  familiar  in  a  Sonnet  as  Islington  and  Hert- 
fordshire. The  next  was  written  within  a  day  or  two  of 
the  last,  on  revisiting  a  spot  where  the  scene  was  laid  of 
my  first  Sonnet  that  "mock'd  my  step  with  many  a 
lonely  glade." 

When  last  I  roved  these  winding  wood-walks  green, 
Green  winding  walks,  and  shady  pathways  sweet, 

Oft-times  would  Anna  seek  the  silent  scene, 
Shrouding  her  beauties  in  the  lone  retreat. 

No  more  I  hear  her  footsteps  in  the  shade  ; 
Her  image  only  in  these  pleasant  ways 
Meets  me  self-wandering,  where  in  happier  dayt 

I  held  free  converse  with  my  fair-hair'd  maid. 
I  pass'd  the  little  cottage  which  she  loved, 

The  cottage  which  did  once  my  all  contain  : 

It  spake  of  days  that  ne'er  must  come  again  ; 

Spake  to  my  heart,  and  much  my  heart  was  moved. 

Now  "Fair  befall  thee,  gentle  maid,"  said  I ; 

And  from  the  cottage  turu'd  me  with  a  sigh. 

The  next  retains  a  few  lines  from  a  Sonnet  of  mine 
which  you  once  remarked  had  no  "  body  of  thought "  in 
it.  I  agree  with  you,  but  have  preserved  a  part  of  it, 
and  it  runs  thus.  I  flatter  myself  you  will  like  it : — 

A  timid  grace  sits  trembling  in  her  eye, 
As  loth  to  meet  the  rudeness  of  men's  sight 


TO  COLERIDGE.  6 

Yet  shedding  a  delicious  lunar  light, 
That  steeps  in  kind  oblivious  ecstacy 
The  care-crazed  mind,  like  some  still  melody  : 

Speaking  most  plain  the  thoughts  which  do  possess 

Her  gentle  sprite,  peace  and  meek  quietness, 
And  innocent  loves,  and  maiden  purity  : 

A  look  whereof  might  heal  the  cruel  smart 
Of  changed  friends,  or  Fortune's  wrongs  unkind  ; 

Might  to  sweet  deeds  of  mercy  move  the  heart 
Of  him  who  hates  his  brethren  of  mankind. 

Turn'd  are  those  beams  from  me,  who  fondly  yet 

Past  joys,  vain  loves,  and  buried  hopes  regret. 

The  next  and  last  I  value  most  of  all  'Twas  com- 
posed close  upoii  the  heels  of  the  last,  in  that  very  wood 
I  had  in  mind  when  I  wrote  "Methinks  how  dainty 
sweet." 

We  were  two  pretty  babes,  the  youngest  she, 
The  youngest,  and  the  loveliest  far,  I  ween, 
And  Innocence  her  name.     The  time  has  been 

We  two  did  love  each  other's  company  ; 

Time  was,  we  two  had  wept  to  have  been  apart : 
But  when,  with  show  of  seeming  good  beguiled, 
I  left  the  garb  and  manners  of  a  child, 

And  my  first  love  for  man's  society, 

Defiling  with  the  world  my  virgin  heart, 

My  loved  companion  dropp'd  a  tear  and  fled, 

And  hid  in  deepest  shades  her  awful  head. 

Beloved  !  who  can  tell  me  where  thou  art — 
In  what  delicious  Eden  to  be  found — 
That  I  may  seek  thee  the  wide  world  around  ? 

Since  writing  it,  I  have  found  in  a  poem  by  Hamilton 
of  Bangor,  these  two  lines  to  "  Happiness  :" — 

' '  Nun,  sober  and  devout,  where  art  thou  fled 
To  hide  in  shades  thy  meek,  contented  head?" 

Lines  eminently  beautiful ;  but  I  do  not  remember  having 
read  them  previously,  for  the  credit  of  my  tenth  and 
eleventh  lines.  Parnell  has  two  lines  (which  probably 
suggested  the  above)  to  "Contentment:" 

"  Whither,  ah  !  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  hide  thy  meek,  contented  head  ?' 


6  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Cowley's  exquisite  "  Elegy  on  the  death  of  his  friend 
Harvey,"  suggested  the  phrase  of  "we  two." 

"  Was  there  a  tree  that  did  not  know 
The  love  betwixt  us  two  ? " 

So  much  for  acknowledged  plagiarisms,  the  confession 
of  which  I  know  not  whether  it  has  more  of  vanity  or 
modesty  in  it.  As  to  my  blank  verse,  I  am  so  dismally 
slow  and  sterile  of  ideas  (I  speak  from  my  heart)  that  I 
much  question  if  it  will  ever  come  to  any  issue.  I  have 
hitherto  only  hammered  out  a  few  independent,  uncon- 
nected snatches,  not  in  a  capacity  to  be  sent.  I  am  very 
ill,  and  will  rest  till  I  have  read  your  poems,  for  which  I 
am  very  thankful.  I  have  one  more  favour  to  beg  of 
you,  that  you  never  mention  Mr.  May's  affair  in  any  sort, 
much  less  think  of  repaying.  Are  we  not  flocci-nauci- 
what-d'ye-call-'em-ists  1  We  have  just  learned  that  my 
poor  brother  has  had  a  sad  accident :  a  large  stone,  blown 
down  by  yesterday's  high  wind,  has  bruised  his  leg  iu  a 
most  shocking  manner ;  he  is  under  the  care  of  Cruik- 
shauks.  Coleridge  !  there  are  10,000  objections  against 
my  paying  you  a  visit  at  Bristol ;  it  cannot  be  else ;  but 
in  this  world  'tis  better  not  to  think  too  much  of  pleasant 
possibles,  that  we  may  not  be  out  of  humour  with 
present  insipids.  Should  anything  bring  you  to  London, 
you  will  recollect  No.  7,  Little  Queen  Street,  Holborn. 

I  shall  be  too  ill  to  call  on  Wordsworth  myself,  but 
will  take  care  to  transmit  him  his  poem,  when  I  have 
read  it.  I  saw  Le  Grice  the  day  before  his  departure, 
and  mentioned  incidentally  his  "  teaching  the  young  idea 
how  to  shoot."  Knowing  him  and  the  probability  there 
is  of  people  having  a  propensity  to  pun  in  his  company,  you 
will  not  wonder  that  we  both  stumbled  on  the  same  pun 
at  once,  he  eagerly  anticipating  me, — "he  would  teach 
him  to  shoot ! "  Poor  Le  Grice  !  if  wit  alone  could  entitle 
a  man  to  respect,  etc.,  he  has  written  a  very  witty  little 
pamphlet  lately,  satirical,  upon  college  declamations.  When 
I  send  White's  book,  I  will  add  that.  I  am  sorry  there 
should  be  any  difference  between  you  and  Southey. 


*0  COLERIDGE.  7 

"  Between  you  two  there  should  be  peace,"  tho'  I  must 
Bay  I  have  borne  him  no  good  will  since  he  spirited 
you  away  from  among  us.  What  is  become  of  Moschus  ? 
You  sported  some  of  his  sublimities,  I  see,  in  your 
Watchman.  Very  decent  things.  So  much  for  to- 
night from  your  afflicted,  headachey,  sorethroaty,  humble 
servant,  C.  LAMB. 

Tuesday  Night. — Of  your  Watchman,  the  Review  of 
Burke  was  the  best  prose.  I  augured  great  things  from 
the  first  Number.  There  is  some  exquisite  poetry  inter- 
spersed. I  have  re-read  the  extract  from  the  Religious 
Musings,  and  retract  whatever  invidious  there  was  in  my 
censure  of  it  as  elaborate.  There  are  times  when  one  is 
not  in  a  disposition  thoroughly  to  relish  good  writing.  I 
have  re-read  it  in  a  more  favourable  moment,  and  hesitate 
not  to  pronounce  it  sublime.  If  there  be  any  tiling  in  it 
approaching  to  tumidity  (which  I  meant  not  to  infer ;  by 
elaborate  I  meant  simply  laboured),  it  is  the  gigantic 
hyperbole  by  which  you  describe  the  evils  of  existing 
society :  "  snakes,  lions,  hyenas,  and  behemoths,"  is 
carrying  your  resentment  beyond  bounds.  The  pictures 
of  "The  Simoom,"  of  "Frenzy  and  Ruin,"  of  "The 
Whore  of  Babylon,"  and  "  The  Cry  of  the  Foul  Spirits 
disherited  of  Earth,"  and  "  the  strange  beatitude  "  which 
the  good  man  shall  recognise  in  heaven,  as  well  as  the 
particularising  of  the  children  of  wretchedness  (I  have 
unconsciously  included  every  part  of  it),  form  a  variety 
of  uniform  excellence.  I  hunger  and  thirst  to  read  the 
poem  complete.  That  is  a  capital  line  in  your  sixth 
Number : 

' '  This  dark,  frieze-coated,  hoarse,  teeth-chattering  month." 

They  are  exactly  such  epithets  as  Burns  would  have 
stumbled  on,  whose  poem  on  the  ploughed-up  daisy  you 
seem  to  have  had  in  mind.  Your  complaint  that  some 
of  your  readers  thought  there  was  too  much,  some  too 
little  original  matter  in  your  Numbers,  reminds  me  of 


8  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

poor  dead  Parsons  in  the  Critic.  "  Too  little  incident ! 
Give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  sir,  there  is  too  much  incident." 
I  had  like  to  have  forgot  thanking  you  for  that  exquisite 
little  morsel,  the  first  Sclavonian  Song.  The  expression 
in  the  second, — "more  happy  to  be  unhappy  in  hell :"  is 
it  not  very  quaint  1  Accept  my  thanks,  in  common  with 
those  of  all  who  love  good  poetry,  for  "The  Braes  of 
Yarrow."  I  congratulate  you  on  the  enemies  you  must 
have  made  by  your  splendid  invective  against  the  barterers 
in  human  flesh  and  sinews.  Coleridge  !  you  will  rejoice 
to  hear  that  Cowper  is  recovered  from  his  lunacy,  and  is 
employed  on  his  translation  of  the  Italian,  etc.,  poems  of 
Milton  for  an  edition  where  Fuseli  presides  as  designer. 
Coleridge !  to  an  idler  like  myself,  to  write  and  receive 
letters  are  both  very  pleasant ;  but  I  wish  not  to  break 
in  upon  your  valuable  time  by  expecting  to  hear  very 
frequently  from  you.  Reserve  that  obligation  for  your 
moments  of  lassitude,  when  you  have  nothing  else  to  do ; 
for  your  loco-restive  and  all  your  idle  propensities,  of 
course,  have  given  way  to  the  duties  of  providing  for  a 
family.  The  mail  is  come  in,  but  no  parcel ;  yet  this  is 
Tuesday.  Farewell,  then,  till  to-morrow ;  for  a  niche 
and  a  nook  I  must  leave  for  criticisms.  By  the  way,  I 
hope  you  do  not  send  your  only  copy  of  Joan  of  Arc:  I 
will  in  that  case  return  it  immediately. 

Your  parcel  is  come :  you  have  been  lavish  of  your 
presents. 

Wordsworth's  poem  I  have  hurried  through,  not  with- 
out delight.  Poor  Lovell !  my  heart  almost  accuses  me 
for  the  light  manner  I  lately  spoke  of  him,  not  dreaming 
of  his  death.  My  heart  bleeds  for  your  accumulated 
troubles :  God  send  you  through  'em  with  patience.  I 
conjure  you,  dream  not  that  I  will  ever  think  of  being 
repaid ;  the  very  word  is  galling  to  the  ears.  I  have 
read  all  your  Religioiis  Musings  with  uninterrupted 
feelings  of  profound  admiration.  You  may  safely  rest 
your  fame  on  it  The  best  remaining  things  are  what  I 
have  before  read,  and  they  lose  nothing  by  my  recoil  ec- 


TO  COLERIDGE.  9 

tion  of  your  manner  of  reciting  'em,  for  I  too  bear  in 
mind  "the  voice,  the  look"  of  absent  friends,  and  can 
occasionally  mimic  their  manner  for  the  amusement  of 
those  who  have  seen  'em.  Your  impassioned  manner  of 
recitation  I  can  recall  at  any  time  to  mine  own  heart  and 
to  the  ears  of  the  bystanders.  I  rather  wish  you  had  left 
the  monody  on  Chatterton  concluding,  as  it  did,  abruptly. 
It  had  more  of  unity.  The  conclusion  of  your  Religious 
Musings,  I  fear,  will  entitle  you  to  the  reproof  of  your 
beloved  woman,  who  wisely  will  not  suffer  your  fancy  to 
run  riot,  but  bids  you  walk  humbly  with  your  God.  The 
last  words, 

"I  discipline  my  young  and  novice  thought 
In  ministeries  of  heart-stirring  song," 

though  not  now  new  to  me,  cannot  be  enough  admired. 
To  speak  politely,  they  are  a  well-turned  compliment  to 
Poetry.  I  hasten  to  read  Joan  of  Arc,  etc.  I  have  read 
your  lines  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  book :  they  are 
worthy  of  Milton ;  but  in  my  mind  yield  to  your  Religious 
Musings.  I  shall  read  the  whole  carefully,  and  in  some 
future  letter  take  the  liberty  to  particularise  my  opinions 
of  it.  Of  what  is  new  to  me  among  your  poems  next  to 
the  "Musings,"  that  beginning  "My  Pensive  Sara"  gave 
me  most  pleasure :  the  lines  in  it  I  just  alluded  to  are 
most  exquisite  ;  they  made  my  sister  and  self  smile,  as 
conveying  a  pleasing  picture  of  Mrs.  C.  checking  your 
wild  wanderings,  which  we  were  so  fond  of  hearing  you 
indulge  when  among  us.  It  has  endeared  us  more  than 
any  thing  to  your  good  lady  ;  and  your  own  self-reproof 
that  follows,  delighted  us.  .'Tis  a  charming  poem  through- 
out. (You  have  well  remarked  that  charming,  admirable, 
exquisite  are  the  words  expressive  of  feelings  more  than 
conveying  of  ideas ;  else  I  might  plead  very  well  want  of 
room  in  my  paper  as  excuse  for  generalising.)  I  want 
room  to  tell  you  how  we  are  charmed  with  your  verses  in 
the  manner  of  Spenser,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  I  am 
glad  you  resume  the  Watchman.  Change  the  name : 
leave  out  all  articles  of  news,  and  whatever  things  are 


1C  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

peculiar  to  newspapers,  and  confine  yourself  to  ethics, 
verse,  criticism  ;  or,  rather  do  not  confine  yourself.  Let 
your  plan  be  as  diffuse  as  the  Spectator,  and  I'll  answer 
for  it  the  work  prospers.  If  I  am  vain  enough  to  think 
I  can  be  a  contributor;  rely  on  my  inclinations.  Coleridge ! 
in  reading  your  Religious  Musings  I  felt  a  transient 
superiority  over  you.  I  have  seen  Priestley.  I  love  to 
see  his  name  repeated  in  your  writings.  I  love  and 
honour  him,  almost  profanely.  You  would  be  charmed 
with  his  Sermons,  if  you  never  read  'em.  You  have 
doubtless  read  his  books  illustrative  of  the  doctrine  of 
Necessity.  Prefixed  to  a  late  work  of  his,  in  answer  to 
Paine,  there  is  a  Preface,  giving  an  account  of  the  man, 
and  his  services  to  men,  written  by  Lindsey,  his  dearest 
friend,  well  worth  your  reading. 

Tuesday  Eve. — Forgive  my  prolixity,  which  is  yet  too 
brief  for  all  I  could  wish  to  say.  God  give  you  comfort, 
and  all  that  are  of  your  household !  Our  loves  and  best 
good  wishes  to  Mrs.  C.  C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  III.]  June  10,  1796. 

With  Joan  of  Arc  I  have  been  delighted,  amazed.  I 
had  not  presumed  to  expect  any  thing  of  such  excellence 
from  Southey.  Why,  the  poem  is  alone  sufficient  to 
redeem  the  character  of  the  age  we  live  in  from  the  im- 
putation of  degenerating  in  Poetry,  were  there  no  such 

beings  extant  as  Burns,  and  Bowles,  Cowper,  and : 

fill  up  the  blank  how  you  please ;  I  say  nothing.  The 
subject  is  well  chosen.  It  opens  well.  To  become  more 
particular,  I  will  notice  in  their  order  a  few  passages  that 
chiefly  struck  me  on  perusal.  Page  26,  "  Fierce  and 
terrible  Benevolence  !"  is  a  phrase  full  of  grandeur  and 
originality.  The  whole  context  made  me  feel  possessed, 
even  like  Joan  herself.  Page  28,  "  It  is  most  horrible 
with  the  keen  sword  to  gore  the  finely-fibred  human 
frame,"  and  what  follows,  pleased  me  mightily.  In  the 
2nd  Book,  the  first  forty  lines  in  particular  are  majestic 


TO  COLERIDGE.  11 

and  high-sounding.  Indeed  the  whole  vision  of  the  Palace 
of  Ambition  and  what  follows  are  supremely  excellent. 
Your  simile  of  the  Laplander, 

"  by  Niemi  lake 

Or  Balda  Zhiok   or  the  mossy  stone 
Of  Solfar-kapper  " 

will  bear  comparison  with  any  in  Milton  for  fulness  of  cir- 
cumstance and  lofty  paceduess  of  versification.  Southey's 
similes,  though  many  of  'em  are  capital,  are  all  inferior. 
In  one  of  his  books,  the  simile  of  the  oak  in  the  storm 
occurs,  I  think,  four  times.  To  return :  the  light  in 
which  you  view  the  heathen  deities  is  accurate  and 
beautiful.  Southey's  personifications  in  this  book  are  so 
many  fine  and  faultless  pictures.  I  was  much  pleased 
with  your  manner  of  accounting  for  the  reason  why 
monarchs  take  delight  in  war.  At  the  447th  line  you 
have  placed  Prophets  and  Enthusiasts  cheek  by  jowl,  on 
too  intimate  a  footing  for  the  dignity  of  the  former. 
Necessarian-like-speaking.  it  is  correct.  Page  y8,  "  Dead 
is  the  Douglas !  cold  thy  warrior  frame,  illustrious  Buchan," 
etc.,  are  of  kindred  excellence  with  Gray's  "  Cold  is 
Cadwallo's  tongue,"  etc.  How  famously  the  Maid  baffles 
the  Doctors,  Seraphic  and  Irrefragable,  "with  all  their 
trumpery!"  Page  126,  the  procession,  the  appearances 
of  the  Maid,  of  the  Bastard  Son  of  Orleans  and  of  Tre- 
mouille,  are  full  of  fire  and  fancy,  and  exquisite  melody 
of  versification.  The  personifications  from  line  303  to 
309,  in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  had  better  been  omitted ; 
they  are  not  very  striking,  and  only  encumber.  The 
converse  which  Joan  and  Conrade  hold  on  the  banks  of 
the  Loire  is  altogether  beautiful.  Page  313,  the  con- 
jecture that  in  dreams  "  all  things  are  that  seem,"  is  one 
of  those  conceits  which  the  Poet  delights  to  admit  into 
his  creed ;  a  creed,  by  the  way,  more  marvellous  arid 
mystic  than  ever  Athanasius  dreamed  of.  Page  315,  I 
need  only  mention  those  lines  ending  with  "  She  saw  a 
serpent  gnawing  at  her  heart !"  They  are  good  imitative 
lines,  "  he  toiled  and  toiled,  of  toil  to  reap  no  end,  but 


12  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

endless  toil  and  never-ending  woe."  Page  347,  Cruelty 
is  such  as  Hogarth  might  have  painted  her.  Page  361, 
all  the  passage  about  Love  (where  he  seems  to  confound 
conjugal  love  with  creating  and  preserving  love)  is  very 
confused,  and  sickens  me  with  a  load  of  useless  personifi- 
cations ;  else  that  ninth  Book  is  the  finest  in  the  volume 
— an  exquisite  combination  of  the  ludicrous  and  the 
terrible :  I  have  never  read  either,  even  in  translation, 
but  such  I  conceive  to  be  the  manner  of  Dante  or  Ariosto. 
The  tenth  Book  is  the  most  languid.  On  the  whole, 
considering  the  celerity  wherewith  the  poem  was  finished, 
I  was  astonished  at  the  infrequency  of  weak  lines. 
I  had  expected  to  find  it  verbose.  Joan,  I  think,  does 
too  little  in  battle ;  Dunois  perhaps  the  same ;  Conrade 
too  much.  The  anecdotes  interspersed  among  the  battles 
refresh  the  mind  very  agreeably,  and  I  am  delighted  with 
the  very  many  passages  of  simple  pathos  abounding 
throughout  the  poem;  passages  which  the  author  of 
"  Crazy  Kate "  might  have  written.  Has  not  Master 
Southey  spoke  very  slightingly,  in  his  Preface,  and  dis- 
paragingly of  Cowper's  Homer?  What  makes  him 
reluctant  to  give  Cowper  his  fame  I  And  does  not 
Southey  use  too  often  the  expletives  "  did,"  and  "does?" 
They  have  a  good  effect  at  times,  but  are  too  inconsider- 
able, or  rather  become  blemishes,  when  they  mark  a 
style.  On  the  whole,  I  expect  Southey  one  day  to  rival 
Milton:  I  already  deem  him  equal  to  Cowper,  and 
superior  to  all  living  poets  besides.  What  says  Coleridge  ? 
The  "  Monody  on  Henderson  "  is  immensely  good :  the 
rest  of  that  little  volume  is  readable,  and  above  medi- 
ocrity. I  proceed  to  a  more  pleasant  task;  pleasant 
because  the  poems  are  yours  ;  pleasant  because  you  impose 
the  task  on  me ;  and  pleasant,  let  me  add,  because  it  will 
confer  a  whimsical  importance  on  me  to  sit  in  judgment 
upon  your  rhymes.  First,  though,  let  me  thank  you  again 
and  again,  in  my  own  and  my  sister's  name,  for  ymir 
invitations.  Nothing  could  give  us  more  pleasure  than 
to  come,  but  (were  there  no  other  reasons)  while  my 


TO  COLERIDGE.  13 

brother's  leg  is  so  bad  it  is  out  of  the  question.  Poor 
fellow  !  he  is  very  feverish  and  light-headed ;  but  Cruik- 
shanks  has  pronounced  the  symptoms  favourable,  and  gives 
us  every  hope  that  there  will  be  no  need  of  amputation : 
God  send  not !  We  are  necessarily  confined  with  him  all 
the  afternoon  and  evening  till  very  late,  so  that  I  am 
stealing  a  few  minutes  to  write  to  you. 

Thank  you  for  your  frequent  letters  :  you  are  the  only 
correspondent,  and  I  might  add,  the  only  friend  I  have 
in  the  world.  I  go  nowhere,  and  have  no  acquaintance. 
Slow  of  speech,  and  reserved  of  manners,  no  one  seeks  or 
cares  for  my  society ;  and  I  am  left  alone.  Allen  calls 
only  occasionally,  as  though  it  were  a  duty  rather,  and 
seldom  stays  ten  minutes.  Then  judge  how  thankful  I 
am  for  your  letters  !  Do  not,  however,  burthen  yourself 
with  the  correspondence.  I  trouble  you  again  so  soon, 
only  in  obedience  to  your  injunctions.  Complaints  apart, 
proceed  we  to  our  task.  I  am  called  away  to  tea  ;  thence 
must  wait  upon  my  brother ;  so  must  delay  till  to- 
morrow. Farewell ! —  Wednesday. 

Thursday. — I  will  first  notice  what  is  new  to  me. 
Thirteenth  page :  "  The  thrilling  tones  that  concentrate 
the  soul "  is  a  nervous  line ;  and  the  first  six  lines  of 
page  14  are  very  pretty;  the  twenty-first  effusion  is  a 
perfect  thing.  That  in  the  manner  of  Spenser  is  very 
sweet,  particularly  at  the  close :  the  thirty-fifth  effusion 
is  most  exquisite  ;  that  line  in  particular,  "  And,  tranquil, 
muse  upon  tranquillity."  It  is  the  very  reflex  pleasure 
that  distinguishes  the  tranquillity  of  a  thinking  being 
from  that  of  a  shepherd,  a  modern  one  I  would  be  under- 
stood to  mean,  a  Damsetas,  one  that  keeps  other  people's 
sheep.  Certainly,  Coleridge,  your  letter  from  Shurton 
Bars  has  less  merit  than  most  things  in  your  volume  \ 
personally,  it  may  chime  in  best  with  your  own  feelings, 
and  therefore  you  love  it  best.  It  has,  however,  great 
merit.  In  your  fourth  epistle,  that  is  an  exquisite 
paragraph,  and  fancy-full,  of  "  A  stream  there  is  which 


14  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

lolls  in  lazy  flow,"  etc.,  etc.  "Murmurs  eweet  under- 
song 'mid  jasmine  bowers  "  is  a  sweet  line ;  and  so  are 
the  three  next.  The  concluding  simile  is  far-fetched — • 
"  tempest-honoured "  is  a  quaintish  phrase.  Of  the 
Monody  on  H  [artley]  I  will  here  only  notice  these  lines, 
as  superlatively  excellent.  That  energetic  one,  "  Shall  I 
not  praise  thee,  scholar,  Christian,  friend,"  like  to  that 
beautiful  climax  of  Shakspeare's  "King,  Hamlet,  Royal 
Dane,  Father;"  "yet  memory  turns  from  little  men  to 
thee,"  "  And  sported  careless  round  their  fellow  child." 
The  whole,  I  repeat  it,  is  immensely  good. 

Yours  is  a  poetical  family.  I  was  much  surprised  and 
pleased  to  see  the  signature  of  Sara  to  that  elegant 
composition,  the  fifth  epistle.  I  dare  not  criticise  the 
Religious  Musings  :  I  like  not  to  select  any  part,  where 
all  is  excellent.  I  can  only  admire,  and  thank  you  for  it 
in  the  name  of  a  Christian,  as  well  as  a  lover  of  good 
poetry :  only  let  me  ask,  Is  not  that  thought  and  those 
words  in  Young,  "stands  in  the  sun," — or  is  it  only  such 
as  Young,  in  one  of  his  better  moments,  might  have  writ  ? — 

"  Believe  thou,  0  my  soul 
Life  is  a  vision,  shadowy  of  Truth  ; 
And  vice,  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave, 
Shapes  of  a  dream  !" 

I  thank  you  for  these  lines  in  the  name  of  a  necessarian, 
and  for  what  follows  in  the  next  paragraph,  in  the  name 
of  a  child  of  fancy.  After  all,  you  cannot,  nor  ever  will, 
write  any  thing  with  which  I  shall  be  so  delighted  as 
what  I  have  heard  yourself  repeat.  You  came  to  town, 
and  I  saw  you  at  a  time  when  your  heart  was  yet  bleed- 
ing with  recent  wounds.  Like  yourself,  I  was  sore  galled 
with  disappointed  hope.  You  had 

.     .     .     "  many  an  holy  lay 

That,  mourning,  soothed  the  mourner  on  his  way." 

I  had  ears  of  sympathy  to  drink  them  in,  and  they  yet 
vibrate  pleasant  on  the  sense.  When  I  read  in  your 
little  volume,  your  nineteenth  effusion,  or  the  twenty- 


TO  COLERIDGE.  15 

eighth  or  twenty-ninth,  or  what  you  call  the  "  Sigh,"  I 
think  I  hear  you  again.  I  image  to  myself  the  little 
smoky  room  at  the  Salutation  and  Cat,  where  we  have 
sat  together  through  the  winter  nights,  beguiling  the 
cares  of  life  with  Poesy.  When  you  left  London  I  felt 
a  dismal  void  in  my  heart.  I  found  myself  cut  off,  at 
one  and  the  same  time,  from  two  most  dear  to  me. 
"  How  blest  with  ye  the  path  could  I  have  trod  of  qiu'et 
life  !"  In  your  conversation  you  had  blended  so  many 
pleasant  fancies  that  they  cheated  me  of  my  grief.  But 
in  your  absence  the  tide  of  melancholy  rushed  in  again, 
and  did  its  worst  mischief  by  overwhelming  my  reason. 
I  have  recovered,  but  feel  a  stupor  that  makes  me  in- 
different to  the  hopes  and  fears  of  this  life.  I  sometimes 
wish  to  introduce  a  religious  turn  of  mind ;  but  habits 
are  strong  things,  and  my  religious  fervours  are  confined, 
alas  !  to  some  fleeting  moments  of  occasional  solitary 
devotion.  A  correspondence,  opening  with  you,  has 
roused  me  a  little  from  my  lethargy,  and  made  me  con- 
scious of  existence.  Indulge  me  in  it :  I  will  not  be 
very  troublesome.  At  some  future  time  I  will  amuse 
you  with  an  account,  as  full  as  my  memory  will  permit, 
of  the  strange  turn  my  frenzy  took.  I  look  back  upon 
it  at  times  with  a  gloomy  kind  of  envy;  for,  while  it 
lasted,  I  had  many,  many  hours  of  pure  happiness. 
Dream  not,  Coleridge,  of  having  tasted  all  the  grandeur 
and  wildness  of  fancy  till  you  have  gone  mad !  All  now 
eeems  to  me  vapid,  comparatively  so.  Excuse  this  selfish 
digression.  Your  "  Monody  "  is  so  superlatively  excellent, 
that  I  can  only  wish  it  perfect,  which  I  can't  help  feeling 
it  is  not  quite.  Indulge  me  in  a  few  conjectures.  What 
I  am  going  to  propose  would  make  it  more  compressed, 
and,  I  think,  more  energetic,  though  I  am  sensible  at 
tiie  expense  of  many  beautiful  lines.  Let  it  begin  "  Is 
this  the  land  of  song-ennobled  line?"  and  proceed  to 
"Otway's  famish'd  form;"  then,  "Thee,  Chatterton," 
to  "harps  of  Seraphim;"  then,  "clad  in  Nature's  rich 
array,"  to  "  orient  day  ;"  then,  "  but  soon  the  scathing 


16  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

lightning,"  to  "blighted  land;"  then,  "sublime  of 
thought,"  to  "his  bosom  glows  ;"  then 

"  But  soon  upon  his  poor  unshelter'd  head 
Did  Penury  her  sickly  mildew  shed  : 
Ah  !  where  are  fled  the  charms  of  vernal  Grace, 
And  Joy's  wild  gleams  that  lighten'd  o'er  his  face?" 

Then  "  youth  of  tumultuous  soul "  to  "  sigh,"  as  before. 
The  rest  may  all  stand  down  to  "  gaze  upon  the  waves 
below."  What  follows  now  may  come  next  as  detached 
verses,  suggested  by  the  Monody,  rather  than  a  part  of 
it.  They  are  indeed,  in  themselves,  very  sweet : 

"  And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng 
Hanging,  enraptured,  on  thy  stately  song," 

in  particular,  perhaps.  If  I  am  obscure,  you  may  under- 
stand me  by  counting  lines.  I  have  proposed  omitting 
twenty-four  lines.  I  feel  that  thus  compressed  it  would 
gain  energy,  but  think  it  most  likely  you  will  not  agree 
with  me  ;  for  who  shall  go  about  to  bring  opinions  to  the 
bed  of  Procrustes,  and  introduce  among  the  sons  of  men 
a  monotony  of  identical  feelings  1  I  only  propose  with 
diffidence.  Keject,  if  you  please,  with  as  little  remorse 
as  you  would  the  colour  of  a  coat  or  the  pattern  of  a 
buckle,  where  our  fancies  differed.  The  lines  "  Friend  to 
the  Friendless,"  etc.,  which  you  may  think  rudely  dis- 
branched from  the  Chatterton,  will  patch  in  with  the 
Man  of  Eoss,  where  they  were  at  once  at  home,  with  two 
more  which  I  recollect, 

"  And  o'er  the  dowried  virgin's  snowy  cheek 
Bade  bridal  Love  suffuse  his  blushes  meek," 

very  beautiful. 

The  "  Pixies "  is  a  perfect  thing ;  and  so  are  the 
"  Lines  on  the  Spring,"  page  28.  The  "  Epitaph  on  an 
Infant,"  like  a  Jack-o'-lantern,  has  danced  about  (or  like 
Dr.  Forster's  scholars)  out  of  the  Morning  Chronicle  into 
the  Watchman,  and  thence  back  into  your  Collection. 
It  is  very  pretty,  and  you  seem  to  think  so;  but,  may 
be,  o'erlooked  its  chief  merit,  that  of  filling  up  a  whole 


TO  COLERIDGE.  17 

page.  I  had  once  deemed  Sonnets  of  unrivalled  use  that 
way  ;  but  your  Epitaphs,  I  find,  are  the  more  diffuse. 
"  Edmund  "  still  holds  its  place  among  your  best  verses. 
"  Ah !  fair  delights "  to  "  roses  round,"  in  your  Poem 
called  "  Absence,"  recall  (none  more  forcibly)  to  my  mind 
the  tones  in  which  you  recited  it.  I  will  not  notice,  in 
this  tedious  (to  you)  manner,  verses  which  have  been  so 
long  delightful  to  me,  and  which  you  already  know  my 
opinion  of.  Of  this  kind  are  Bowles,  Priestley,  and  that 
most  exquisite  and  most  Bowles-like  of  all,  the  nineteenth 
effusion.  It  would  have  better  ended  with  "agony  of 
care  :"  the  last  two  lines  are  obvious  and  unnecessary, 
and  you  need  not  now  make  fourteen  lines  of  it :  now  it 
is  rechristened  from  a  Sonnet  to  an  Effusion.  Schiller 
might  have  written  the  twentieth  Effusion :  'tis  worthy 
of  him  in  any  sense.  I  was  glad  to  meet  with  those 
lines  you  sent  me,  when  my  sister  was  so  ill :  I  had  lost 
the  copy,  and  I  felt  not  a  little  proud  at  seeing  my  name 
in  your  verse.  The  "  Complaint  of  Ninathoma "  (first 
stanza  in  particular)  is  the  best,  or  only  good  imitation, 
of  Ossian  I  ever  saw,  your  "  Restless  Gale "  excepted. 
"  To  an  Infant "  is  most  sweet.  Is  not  "  foodful,"  though, 
very  harsh  ?  Would  not  "  dulcet "  fruit  be  less  harsh,  or 
some  other  friendly  bi-syllable  ?  In  "  Edmund,"  "  Frenzy, 
fierce-eyed  child,"  is  not  so  well  as  "  frantic,"  though  that 
is  an  epithet  adding  nothing  to  the  meaning.  Slander 
couching  was  better  than  "squatting."  In  the  "Man  of 
Ross  "  it  was  a  better  line  thus : 

M  If  'neath  this  roof  thy  wine-cheer' d  moments  pass," 

than  as  it  stands  now.  Time  nor  nothing  can  reconcile 
me  to  the  concluding  five  lines  of  "Kosciusko:"  call  it 
any  thing  you  will  but  sublime.  In  my  twelfth  effusion 
I  had  rather  have  seen  what  I  wrote  myself,  though 
they  bear  no  comparison  with  your  exquisite  lines — 

"  On  rose-leaf  d  beds,  amid  your  faery  bowers, "  etc. 

I  love  my  Sonnets  because  they  are  the  reflected  images 
c 


18  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

of  my  own  feelings  at  different  times.  To  instance,  in 
the  thirteenth — 

"  How  reason  reel'd,"  etc., 

are  good  lines,  but  must  spoil  the  whole  with  me,  who 
know  it  is  only  a  fiction  of  yours,  and  that  the  "  rude 
(lashings  "  did  in  fact  not  "  rock  ine  to  repose."  I  grant 
the  same  objection  applies  not  to  the  former  Sonnet ;  but 
still  I  love  my  own  feelings :  they  are  dear  to  memory, 
though  they  now  and  then  wake  a  sigh  or  a  tear. 
"  Thinking  on  divers  things  foredone,"  I  charge  you, 
Coleridge,  spare  my  ewe  lambs ;  and  though  a  gentleman 
may  borrow  six  lines  in  an  epio  poem  (I  should  have  no 
objection  to  borrow  five  hundred,  and  without  acknow- 
ledging), still,  in  a  sonnet,  a  personal  poem,  I  do  not 
"  ask  my  friend  the  aiding  verse."  I  would  not  wrong 
your  feelings  by  proposing  any  improvements  (did  I  think 
myself  capable  of  suggesting  'em)  in  such  personal  poems 
as  "Thou  bleedest,  my  poor  heart!" — 'od  so, — I  am 
caught — I  have  already  done  it ;  but  that  simile  I  pro- 
pose abridging,  would  not  change  the  feeling  or  introduce 
any  alien  ones.  Do  you  understand  me  1  In  the  twenty- 
eighth,  however,  and  in  the  "  Sigh,"  and  that  composed 
at  Clevedon,  things  that  come  from  the  heart  direct,  not 
by  the  medium  of  the  fancy,  I  would  not  suggest  an 
alteration.  When  my  blank  verse  is  finished,  or  any 
long  fancy  poems,  propino  tibi  alterandum,  cut-up-andum, 
abridgandum,  just  what  you  will  with  it ;  but  spare  my 
ewe  lambs !  That  to  "  Mrs.  Siddons,"  now,  you  were 
welcome  to  improve,  if  it  had  been  worth  it ;  but  I  say 
unto  you  again,  Coleridge,  spare  my  ewe  lambs  !  I  must 
confess  were  they  mine,  I  should  omit,  in  editione  secundd, 
Effusions  two  and  three,  because  satiric,  and  below  the 
dignity  of  the  poet  of  Religious  Mm  ings,  fifth,  seventh, 
half  of  the  eighth,  that  "  Written  in  early  youth,"  as  far 
as  "thousand  eyes," — though  I  part  not  unreluctantly 
with  that  lively  line — 

"  Chaste  joyance  dancing  in  her  bright  blue  eyea," 


TO  COLERIDGE.  19 

and  one  or  two  more  just  thereabouts.  But  I  would 
substitute  for  it  that  sweet  poern  called  "  Recollection," 
in  the  fifth  Number  of  the  Watchman;  better,  I  think, 
than  the  remainder  of  this  poem,  though  not  differing 
materially  :  as  the  poem  now  stands  it  looks  altogether 
confused.  And  do  not  omit  those  lines  upon  the  "  Early 
Blossom,"  in  your  sixth  Number  of  the  Watchman :  and 
I  would  omit  the  tenth  Effusion  or,  what  would  do  better, 
alter  and  improve  the  last  four  lines.  In  fact,  I  suppose, 
if  they  were  mine,  I  should  not  omit  'em  ;  but  your  verse 
is,  for  the  most  part,  so  exquisite,  that  I  like  not  to  see 
aught  of  meaner  matter  mixed  with  it.  Forgive  my 
petulance,  and  often,  I  fear,  ill-founded  criticisms;  and 
forgive  me  that  I  have,  by  this  time,  made  your  eyes 
and  head  ache  with  my  long  letter;  but  I  cannot  forego 
hastily  the  pleasure  and  pride  of  thus  conversing  with 
you.  You  did  not  tell  me  whether  I  was  to  include 
the  Condones  ad  Populum  in  my  remarks  on  your 
poems.  They  are  not  unfrequently  sublime;  and  I 
think  you  could  not  do  better  than  to  turn  'em  into 
verse,  if  you  have  nothing  else  to  do.  Allen,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  is  a  confirmed  Atheist.  Stoddart,  a  cold-hearted, 
well-bred,  conceited  disciple  of  Godwin,  does  him  no 
good.  His  wife  has  several  daughters  (one  of  'em  as 
old  as  himself).  Surely  there  is  something  unnatural  in 
such  a  marriage. 

How  I  sympathise  with  you  on  the  dull  duty  of  a 
reviewer,  and  heartily  damn  with  you  Ned  Evans  and 
the  Prosodist.  I  shall,  however,  wait  impatiently  for 
*.he  articles  in  the  Critical  Review,  next  month,  because 
they  are  yours.  Young  Evans  (W.  Evans,  a  branch  of 
a  family  you  were  once  so  intimate  with)  is  come  into 
our  office,  and  sends  his  love  to  you !  Coleridge,  I 
devoutly  wish  that  Fortune,  who  has  made  sport  with 
you  so  long,  may  play  one  freak  more, — throw  you  into 
London,  or  some  spot  near  it,  and  there  snug-ify  you  for 
life.  'Tis  a  selfish,  but  natural  wish  for  me,  cast  as  I 
am  "  on  life's  wide  plain,  friendless."  Are  you  acquainted 


'20  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

with  Bowles  ?  I  see,  by  his  last  Elegy  (written  at  Bath), 
you  are  near  neighbours. — Thursday, 

"And  I  can  think  I  can  see  the  groves  again — was  it 
the  voice  of  thee — turns  not  the  voice  of  thee,  my  buried 
friend — who  dries  with  her  dark  locks  the  tender  tear/'' 
are  touches  as  true  to  Nature  as  any  in  his  other  Elegy, 
written  at  the  Hot  Wells,  about  poor  Kassell,  etc.  You 
are  doubtless  acquainted  with  it. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  entirely  agree  with  you  in  your 
stricture  upon  iny  Sonnet  "  To  Innocence."  To  men 
whose  hearts  are  not  quite  deadened  by  their  commerce 
with  the  world,  innocence  (no  longer  familiar)  becomes  an 
awful  idea  So  I  felt  when  I  wrote  it.  Your  other 
censures  (qualified  and  sweetened,  though,  with  praises 
somewhat  extravagant)  I  perfectly  coincide  with ;  yet  I 
choose  to  retain  the  word  "lunar."  Indulge  a  "lunatic" 
in  his  loyalty  to  his  mistress  the  Moon !  I  have  just 
been  reading  a  most  pathetic  copy  of  verses  on  Sophia 
Pringle,  who  was  hanged  and  burnt  for  coining.  One  of 
the  strokes  of  pathos  (which  are  very  many,  all  somewhat 
obscure),  is  "She  lifted  up  her  guilty  forger  to  heaven." 
A  note  explains,  by  "  forger,"  her  right  hand,  with  which 
she  forged  or  coined  the  base  metal.  •  For  "  pathos  "  read 
bathos.  You  have  put  me  out  of  conceit  with  my  blank 
verse  by  your  Religious  Musings.  I  think  it  will  come 
to  nothing.  I  do  not  like  'em  enough  to  send  'em.  I 
have  just  been  reading  a  book  which  I  may  be  too  partial 
to,  as  it  was  the  delight  of  my  childhood ;  but  I  will 
recommend  it  to  you :  it  is  Izaak  Walton's  Complete 
Angler.  All  the  scientific  part  you  may  omit  in  reading. 
The  dialogue  is  very  simple,  full  of  pastoral  beauties,  and 
will  charm  you.  Many  pretty  old  verses  are  interspersed. 
This  letter,  which  would  be  a  week's  work  reading  only, 
I  do  not  wish  you  to  answer  it  in  less  than  a  month.  I 
shall  be  richly  content  with  a  letter  from  you  some  day 
early  in  July ;  though,  if  you  get  any  how  settled  before 
then,  pray  let  me  know  it  immediately ;  'twould  give  me 
so  much  satisfaction.  Concerning  the  Unitarian  chapel, 


TO  COLERIDGE.  21 

the  salary  is  the  only  scruple  that  the  most  rigid  moralist 
would  admit  as  valid.  Concerning  the  tutorage,  is  not 
the  salary  low,  and  absence  from  your  family  unavoidable? 
London  is  the  only  fostering  soil  for  genius.  Nothing 
more  occurs  just  now ;  so  I  will  leave  you,  in  mercy,  one 
small  white  spot  empty  below,  to  repose  your  eyes  upon, 
fatigued  as  they  must  be  with  the  wilderness  of  words 
they  have  by  this  time  painfully  travelled  through.  God 
love  you,  Coleridge,  and  prosper  you  through  life ;  though 
mine  will  be  loss  if  your  lot  is  to  be  cast  at  Bristol,  or 
at  Nottingham,  or  anywhere  but  London.  Our  loves  to 

Mrs.  C .  0.  L. 

Friday,  IQtk  June  1796. 

LETTER  IV.]  Monday  Night,  June  13,  1796. 

Unfurnished  at  present  with  any  sheet-filling  subject, 
j.  shall  continue  my  letter  gradually  and  journal-wise. 
My  second  thoughts  entirely  coincide  with  your  comments 
on  Joan  of  Arc,  and  I  can  only  wonder  at  my  childish 
judgment  which  overlooked  the  1st  book,  and  could  pre- 
fer the  9th  :  not  that  I  was  insensible  to  the  soberer 
beauties  of  the  former ;  but  the  latter  caught  me  with  its 
glare  of  magic  :  the  former,  however,  left  a  more  pleasing 
general  recollection  in  my  mind.  Let  me  add,  the  1st 
book  was  the  favourite  of  my  sister ;  and  /  now,  with 
Joan,  often  "think  on  Domremi  and  the  fields  of  Arc." 
I  must  not  pass  over  without  acknowledging  my  obliga- 
tions to  your  full  and  satisfactory  account  of  personifica- 
tions. I  have  read  it  again  and  again,  and  it  will  be  a 
guide  to  my  future  taste.  Perhaps  I  had  estimated 
Southey's  merits  too  much  by  number,  weight,  and 
measure.  I  now  agree  completely  and  entirely  in  your 
opinion  of  the  genius  of  Southey.  Your  own  image  of 
Melancholy  is  illustrative  of  what  you  teach,  and  in  itself 
masterly.  I  conjecture  it  is  "  disbranched  "  from  one  of 
your  embryo  "hymns."  When  they  are  mature  of  birth 
(were  I  you)  I  should  print  'em,  in  one  separate  volume, 


22  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  IAMB. 

with  Religious  Musings  and  your  part  of  the  Joan  of 
Arc.  Birds  of  the  same  soaring  wing  should  hold  on 
their  flight  in  company.  Once  for  all  (and  by  renewing 
the  subject  you  will  only  renew  in  me  the  condemnation 
of  Tantalus),  I  hope  to  be  able  to  pay  you  a  visit  (if  you 
are  then  at  Bristol)  some  time  in  the  latter  end  of  August 
or  beginning  of  September,  for  a  week  or  fortnight :  before 
that  time  office  business  puts  an  absolute  veto  on  my 
coming. 

' '  And  if  a  sigh  that  speaks  regret  of  happier  times  appear, 
A  glimpse  of  joy  that  we  have  met  shall  shine  and  dry  the  tear." 

Of  the  blank  verses  I  spoke  of,  the  following  lines  are 
the  only  tolerably  complete  ones  I  have  writ  out  of  not 
more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty.  That  I  get  on  so 
slowly  you  may  fairly  impute  to  want  of  practice  in 
composition,  when  I  declare  to  you  that  (the  few  verses 
which  you  have  seen  excepted)  I  have  not  writ  fifty  lines 
since  I  left  school.  It  may  not  be  amiss  to  remark  that 
my  grandmother  (on  whom  the  verses  are  written)  lived 
housekeeper  in  a  family  the  fifty  or  sixty  last  years  of  her 
life — that  she  was  a  woman  of  exemplary  piety  and 
goodness — and  for  many  years  before  her  death  was 
terribly  afflicted  with  a  cancer  in  her  breast,  which  she 
bore  with  true  Christian  patience.  You  may  think  that 
I  have  not  kept  enough  apart  the  ideas  of  her  heavenly 
and  her  earthly  master ;  but  recollect  I  have  designedly 
given  in  to  her  own  way  of  feeling ;  and  if  she  had  a 
failing  'twas  that  she  respected  her  master's  family  too 
much,  not  reverenced  her  Maker  too  little.  The  lines 
begin  imperfectly,  as  I  may  probably  connect  'em  if  I 
finish  at  all :  and  if  I  do,  Biggs  shall  print  'em  (in 
a  more  economical  way  than  you  yours),  for,  Sonnets 
and  all,  they  won't  make  a  thousand  lines  as  I  pro- 
pose completing  'em,  and  the  substance  must  be  wire- 
drawn. 


TO 'COLERIDGE.  23 

LETTER  Y.]  Tuesday  Evening,  June  14,  1796. 

I  am  not  quite  satisfied  now  with  the  Chatterton,  and, 
with  your  leave,  will  try  my  hand  at  it  again.  A  master 
joiner,  you  know,  may  leave  a  cabinet  to  be  finished  by 
his  journeyman,  when  his  own  hands  are  full. 

To  your  list  of  illustrative  personifications,  into  which 
a  fine  imagination  enters,  I  will  take  leave  to  add  the 
following  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Wife  for  a 
Month;  'tis  the  conclusion  of  a  description  of  a  sea  fight: 
— "  The  game  of  death  was  never  played  so  nobly  :  the 
meagre  thief  grew  wanton  in  his  mischiefs;  and  his 
shrunk,  hollow  eyes  smiled  on  his  ruins."  There  is  fancy 
in  these  of  a  lower  order,  from  Bonduca  ; — "  Then  did  I 
see  these  valiant  men  of  Britain,  like  boding  owls  creep 
into  tods  of  ivy,  and  hoot  their  fears  to  one  another 
nightly."  Not  that  it  is  a  personification ;  only  it  just 
caught  my  eye  in  a  little  extract  book  I  keep,  which  is 
full  of  quotations  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  in  par- 
ticular, in  which  authors  I  can't  help  thinking  there  is  a 
greater  richness  of  poetical  fancy  than  in  any  one,  Shaks- 
peare  excepted.  Are  you  acquainted  with  Massinger  ? 
At  a  hazard  I  will  trouble  you  with  a  passage  from  a 
play  of  his  called  A  Very  Woman.  The  lines  are  spoken 
by  a  lover  (disguised)  to  his  faithless  mistress.  You  will 
remark  the  fine  effect  of  the  double  endings.  You  will 
by  your  ear  distinguish  the  lines,  for  I  write  'em  as  prose. 
"  Not  far  from  where  my  father  lives,  a  lady,  a  neighbour 
by,  blest  with  as  great  a  leauty  as  Nature  durst  bestow 
without  undoing,  dwelt,  and  most  happily,  as  I  thought 
then,  and  blest  the  house  a  thousand  times  she  dwelt  in. 
This  beauty,  in  the  blossom  of  my  youth,  when  my  first 
fire  knew  no  adulterate  incense,  nor  I  no  way  to  flatter 
but  my  fondness ;  in  all  the  bravery  my  friends  coidd 
show  me,  in  all  the  faith  my  innocence  could  give  me,  in 
the  best  language  my  tme  tongue  could  tell  me,  and  all 
the  broken  sighs  my  sick  heart  lend  me,  I  sued  and  served. 
Long  did  I  serve  this  lady,  long  was  my  travail,  long  my 


24  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

trade  to  win  her :  with  all  the  duty  of  my  soul  I  SERVED 
HER."  "Then  she  must  love."  "She  did,  but  never 
me :  she  could  not  love  me ;  she  would  not  love,  she 
hated, — more,  she  scorn'd  me  ;  and  in  so  poor  and  base  a 
way  abused  me  for  all  my  services,  for  all  my  bounties,  so 
bold  neglects  flung  on  me."  "What  out  of  love,  and 
worthy  love,  I  gave  her  (shame  to  her  most  unworthy 
mind!),  to  fools,  to  girls,  to  fiddlers,  and  her  boys  she 
flung,  all  in  disdain  of  me."  One  more  passage  strikes 
my  eye  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Palamon  and 
Arctic.  One  of  'em  complains  in  prison  : 

"  This  is  all  our  world  : 
We  shall  know  nothing  here  but  one  another  ; 
Hear  nothing  but  the  clock  that  tells  our  woes. 
The  vine  shall  grow,  but  we  shall  never  see  it.' 

Is  not  the  last  circumstance  exquisite  ?  I  mean  not  to 
lay  myself  open  by  saying  they  exceed  Milton,  and  perhaps 
Collins,  in  sublimity.  But  don't  you  conceive  all  poets, 
after  Shakspeare,  yield  to  'em  in  variety  of  genius? 
Massinger  treads  close  on  their  heels ;  but  you  are  most 
probably  as  well  acquainted  with  his  writings  as  your 
humble  servant.  My  quotations,  in  that  case,  will  only 
serve  to  show  my  barrenness  of  matter.  Southey,  in 
simplicity  and  tenderness,  is  excelled  decidedly  only,  I 
think,  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher — in  his  "  Maid's 
Tragedy "  and  some  parts  of  "  Philaster "  in  particular, 
and  elsewhere  occasionally ;  and  perhaps  by  Cowper  in 
his  "  Crazy  Kate,"  and  in  parts  of  his  translation :  such 
as  the  sjteeches  of  Hecuba  and  Andromache.  I  long  to 
know  your  opinion  of  that  translation.  The  Odyssey 
especially  is  surely  very  Homeric.  What  nobler  than  the 
appearance  of  Phoebus  at  the  beginning  of  the  Iliad — the 
lines  ending  with  "  Dread  sounding,  bounding  on  the 
silver  bow !" 

I  beg  you  will  give  me  your  opinion  of  the  translation ; 
it  afforded  me  high  pleasure.  As  curious  a  specimen  of 
translation  as  ever  fell  into  my  hands  is  a  young  man's  in 
our  office,  of  a  French  novel.  What  in  the  original  was 


TO  COLERIDGE.  25 

literally  "  amiable  delusions  of  the  fancy,"  he  proposed  to 
render  "the  fair  frauds  of  the  imagination!"  I  had 
much  trouble  in  licking  the  book  into  any  meaning  at  all 
Yet  did  the  knave  clear  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  by  subscrip- 
tion and  selling  the  copyright :  the  book  itself  not  a 
week's  work  !  To-day's  portion  of  my  journalising  epistle 
has  been  very  dull  and  poverty-stricken.  I  will  here  end. 

Tuesday  Night. — I  have  been  drinking  egg-hot  and 
smoking  Oronooko  (associated  circumstances,  which  ever 
forcibly  recall  to  my  mind  our  evenings  and  nights  at  the 
Salutation).  My  eyes  and  brain  are  heavy  and  asleep, 
but  my  heart  is  awake ;  and  if  words  came  as  ready  as 
ideas,  and  ideas  as  feelings,  I  could  say  ten  hundred  kind 
things.  Coleridge,  you  know  not  my  supreme  happiness 
at  having  one  on  earth  (though  counties  separate  us)  whom 
I  can  call  a  friend.  Remember  you  those  tender  lines  of 
Logan's  ? — 

"  Our  broken  friendships  we  deplore, 

And  loves  of  youth  that  are  no  more ; 

No  after-friendships  e'er  can  raise 

Th'  endearments  of  our  early  days, 

And  ne'er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove 

As  when  we  first  began  to  love." 

I  am  writing  at  random,  and  half-tipsy,  what  you  may 
not  equally  understand,  as  you  will  be  sober  when  you 
read  it ;  but  my  sober  and  my  half-tipsy  hours  you  are 
alike  a  sharer  in.  Good-night. 

"  Then  up  rose  our  bard,  like  a  prophet  in  drink, 
Craigdoroch,  thou'lt  soar  when  creation  shall  sink." 

BUBNS. 

Thursday. — I  am  now  in  high  hopes  to  be  able  to 
visit  you,  if  perfectly  convenient  on  your  part,  by  the  end 
of  next  month — perhaps  the  last  week  or  fortnight  in 
July.  A  change  of  scene  and  a  change  of  faces  would  do 
me  good,  even  if  that  scene  were  not  to  be  Bristol,  and 
those  faces  Coleridge's  and  his  friends.  In  the  words  of 
Terence,  a  little  altered,  Tcedet  me  hujus  quotidiani  mundi, 


26  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

I  am  heartily  sick  of  the  every-day  scenes  of  life.  I  shall 
half  wish  you  unmarried  (don't  show  this  to  Mrs.  C.)  for 
one  evening  only,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  smoking  with 
you  and  drinking  egg-hot  in  some  little  smoky  room  in  a 
pot-house,  for  I  know  not  yet  how  I  shall  like  you  in  a 
decent  room  and  looking  quite  happy.  My  best  love  and 
respects  to  Sara  notwithstanding. 

Yours  sincerely, 

CHABLES  LAMB. 


LETTER  VI.]  July  1,  1796. 

The  first  moment  I  can  come  I  will ;  but  my  hopes  of 
coming  yet  a  while  yet  hang  on  a  ticklish  thread.  The 
coach  I  come  by  is  immaterial,  as  I  shall  so  easily,  by 
your  direction,  find  ye  out.  My  mother  is  grown  so 
entirely  helpless  (not  having  any  use  of  her  limbs)  that 
Mary  is  necessarily  confined  from  ever  sleeping  out,  she 
being  her  bed-fellow.  She  thanks  you  though,  and  will 
accompany  me  in  spirit  Most  exquisite  are  the  lines 
from  Withers.  Your  own  lines,  introductory  to  your  poem 
on  "  Self,"  run  smoothly  and  pleasurably,  and  I  exhort 
you  to  continue  'em.  What  shall  I  say  to  your  "  Dactyls "1 
They  are  what  you  would  call  good  per  se  ;  but  a  parody 
on  some  of  'em  is  just  now  suggesting  itself,  and  you  shall 
have  it  rough  and  unlicked.  I  mark  with  figures  the 
lines  parodied : — 

4. — Sorely  your  Dactyls  do  drag  along  limp-footed. 

5. — Sad  is  the  measure  that  hangs  a  clod  round  'em  so. 

6. — Meagre  and  languid,  proclaiming  its  wretchedness. 

1. — Weary,  unsatisfied,  not  a  little  sick  of  'em. 
11. — Cold  is  my  tired  heart,  I  have  no  charity. 

2. — Painfully  travelling  thus  over  the  rugged  road. 

7. — 0  begone,  measure,  half  Latin,  half  English,  then. 
12. — Dismal  your  Dactyls  are,  God  help  ye,  rhyming  ones  ! 

I  possibly  may  not  come  this  fortnight ;  therefore  all 
thou  hast  to  do  is  not  to  look  for  me  any  particular  day, 
onlp  to  write  word  immediately,  if  at  any  time  you  quit 


TO  COLERIDGE.  27 

Bristol,  lest  I  come  and  Taffy  be  not  at  home.  I  hope  I 
can  come  in  a  day  or  two ;  but  young  Savory,  of  my 
office,  is  suddenly  taken  ill  in  this  very  nick  of  time,  and 
I  must  officiate  for  him  till  he  can  come  to  work  again. 
Had  the  knave  gone  sick,  and  died,  and  putrefied,  at  any 
other  time,  philosophy  might  have  afforded  one  comfort ; 
but  just  now  I  have  no  patience  with  him.  Quarles  I 
am  as  great  a  stranger  to  as  I  was  to  Withers.  I  wish 
you  would  try  and  do  something  to  bring  our  elder  bards 
into  more  general  fame.  I  writhe  with  indignation  when, 
in  books  of  criticism,  where  commonplace  quotation  is 
heaped  upon  quotation,  I  find  no  mention  of  such  men  as 
Massinger,  or  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, — men  with  whom 
succeeding  dramatic  writers  (Otway  alone  excepted)  can 
bear  no  manner  of  comparison.  Stupid  Knox  hath 
noticed  none  of  'em  among  his  extracts. 

Thursday. — Mrs.   C can  scarce  guess  how  she 

has  gratified  me  by  her  very  kind  letter  and  sweet  little 
poem.  I  feel  that  I  should  thank  her  in  rhyme ;  but  she 
must  take  my  acknowledgment,  at  present,  in  plain 
honest  prose.  The  uncertainty  in  which  I  yet  stand, 
whether  I  can  come  or  no,  damps  my  spirits,  reduces  me 
a  degree  below  prosaical,  and  keeps  me  in  a  suspense  that 
fluctuates  between  hope  and  fear.  Hope  is  a  charming, 
lively,  blue-eyed  wench,  and  I  am  always  glad  of  her 
company,  but  could  dispense  with  the  visitor  she  brings 
with  her — her  younger  sister,  Fear, — a  white-livered, 
lily-cheeked,  bashful,  palpitating,  awkward  hussy,  that 
hangs,  like  a  green  girl,  at  her  sister's  apron-strings,  and 
will  go  with  her  whithersoever  she  goes.  For  the  life 
and  soul  of  me  I  could  not  improve  those  lines  in  your 
poem  on  the  Prince  and  Princess  ;  so  I  changed  them  to 
what  you  bid  me,  and  left  'em  at  Perry's.  I  think  'em 
altogether  good,  and  do  not  see  why  you  were  solicitous 
about  any  alteration.  I  have  not  yet  seen,  but  will 
make  it  my  business  to  see,  to-day's  Chronicle,  for  your 
verses  on  Home  Tooke.  Dyer  stanza'd  him  in  one  of 


28  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMR 

the  papers  t'other  day ;  but,  I  think,  unsuccessfully. 
Tooke's  friends'  meeting  was,  I  suppose,  a  dinner  of 
condolence.  I  am  not  sorry  to  find  you  (for  all  Sara) 
immersed  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  metaphysics.  You 
know  I  had  a  sneaking  kindness  for  this  last  noble 
science,  and  you  taught  me  some  smattering  of  it.  I 
look  to  become  no  mean  proficient  under  your  tuition. 
Coleridge,  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  you  wrote  to  me 
about  Plutarch  and  Porphyry?  I  received  no  such  letter, 
nor  remember  a  syllable  of  the  matter,  yet  am  not  apt  to 
forget  any  part  of  your  epistles,  least  of  all,  an  injunction 
like  that.  I  will  cast  about  for  'em,  tho'  I  am  a  sad 
hand  to  know  what  books  are  worth,  and  both  worthy 
gentlemen  are  alike  out  of  my  line.  To-morrow  I  shall 
be  less  suspensive,  and  in  better  cue  to  write  :  so  good-bye 
at  present. 

Friday  Evening. — That  execrable  aristocrat  and 
knave,  Richardson,  has  given  me  an  absolute  refusal  of 
leave.  The  poor  man  cannot  guess  at  my  disappoint- 
ment. Is  it  not  hard,  "  this  dread  dependence  on  the 
low-bred  mind  1"  Continue  to  write  to  me  tho',  and  I 
must  be  content.  Our  loves  and  best  good  wishes  attend 
upon  you  both.  LAMB. 

Savory  did  return,  but  there  are  two  or  three  more  ill 
and  absent,  which  was  the  plea  for  refusing  me.  I  will 
never  commit  my  peace  of  mind  by  depending  on  such  a 
wretch  for  a  favour  in  future,  so  I  shall  never  have  heart 
to  ask  for  holidays  again.  The  man  next  him  in  office, 
Cartwright,  furnished  him  with  the  objections. 

C.  LAMB. 

LETTEB  VII.]  July  5,  1796. 

Let  its  prose. 

What  can  I  do  till  you  send  word  what  priced  and 
placed  house  you  should  like1?  Islington,  possibly,  you 


TO  COLERIDGE.  29 

would  not  like  ;  to  me  'tis  classical  ground.  Knights- 
bridge  is  a  desirable  situation  for  the  air  of  the  parks. 
St.  George's  Fields  is  convenient  for  its  contiguity  to  the 
Bench.  Choose  !  But  are  you  really  coming  to  town  1 
The  hope  of  it  has  entirely  disarmed  my  petty  disappoint- 
ment of  its  nettles ;  yet  I  rejoice  so  much  on  my  own 
account,  that  I  fear  I  do  not  feel  enough  pure  satisfaction 
on  yours.  Why,  surely,  the  joint  editorship  of  the 
\Morning\  Chronicle  must  be  a  very  comfortable  and 
secure  living  for  a  man.  But  should  not  you  read  French, 
or  do  you  ?  and  can  you  write  with  sufficient  moderation, 
as  'tis  called,  when  one  suppresses  the  one  half  of  what 
one  feels  or  could  say  on  a  subject,  to  chime  in  the  better 
with  popular  lukewarmness  1  White's  "  Letters  "  are 
near  publication.  Could  you  review  'em,  or  get  'ein 
reviewed?  Are  you  not  connected  with  the  Critical 
Review  ?  His  frontispiece  is  a  good  conceit :  Sir  John 
learning  to  dance  to  please  Madame  Page,  in  dress  of 
doublet,  etc.,  forms  the  upper  half;  and  modern  panta- 
loons, with  shoes,  etc.,  of  the  eighteenth  century,  form 
the  lower  half;  and  the  whole  work  is  full  of  goodly  quips 
and  rare  fancies,  "all  deftly  masqued  like  hoar  antiquity" 
— much  superior  to  Dr.  Kenrick's  Falstaff's  Wedding, 
which  you  have  seen.  Allen  sometimes  laughs  at  super- 
stition, and  religion,  and  the  like.  A  living  fell  vacant 
lately  in  the  gift  of  the  Hospital :  White  informed  him 
that  he  stood  a  fair  chance  for  it.  He  scrupled  and 
scrupled  about  it,  and  at  last,  to  use  his  own  words, 
"  tampered "  with  Godwin  to  know  whether  the  thing 
was  honest  or  not.  Godwin  said  nay  to  it,  and  Allen 
rejected  the  living !  Could  the  blindest  poor  papist  have 
bowed  more  servilely  to  his  priest  or  casuist  1  Why  sleep 
the  Watchman's  answers  to  that  Godwin  ?  I  beg  you 
will  not  delay  to  alter,  if  you  mean  to  keep,  those  last 
lines  I  sent  you.  Do  that,  and  read  these  for  your 
pains : — 


30  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

TO  THE  POET  COW  PER. 

Cowper,  I  thank  my  God  that  thou  art  heal'd ! 
Thine  was  the  sorest  malady  of  all ; 
And  I  am  sad  to  think  that  it  should  light 
Upon  thy  worthy  head  !     But  thou  art  heal'd, 
And  thou  art  yet,  we  trust,  the  destined  man, 
Born  to  reanimate  the  lyre,  whose  chords 
Have  slumber'd,  and  have  idle  lain  so  long  j 
To  the  immortal  sounding  of  whose  strings 
Did  Milton  frame  the  stately-paced  verse  ; 
Among  whose  wires  with  light  finger  playing, 
Our  elder  bard,  Spenser,  a  gentle  name, 
The  lady  Muses'  dearest  darling  child, 
Elicited  the  deftest  tunes  yet  heard 
In  hall  or  bower,  taking  the  delicate  ear 
Of  Sidney  and  his  peerless  Maiden  Queen. 

Thou,  then,  take  up  the  mighty  epic  strain, 
Cowper,  of  England's  Bards,  the  wisest  and  the  best. 
1706. 

I  have  read  your  climax  of  praises  in  those  three 
Reviews.  These  mighty  spouters  out  of  panegyric  waters 
have,  two  of  'em,  scattered  their  spray  even  upon  me,  and 
thB  waters  are  cooling  and  refreshing.  Prosaically,  the 
Monthly  reviewers  have  made  indeed  a  large  article  of  it, 
and  done  you  justice.  The  Critical  have,  in  their  wisdom, 
selected  not  the  very  best  specimens,  and  notice  not, 
except  as  one  name  on  the  muster-roll,  the  Religious 
Musings.  I  suspect  Master  Dyer  to  have  been  the  writer 
of  that  article,  as  the  substance  of  it  was  the  very  remarks 
and  the  very  language  he  used  to  me  one  day.  I  fear 
you  will  not  accord  entirely  with  my  sentiments  of  Cowper, 
as  expressed  above  (perhaps  scarcely  just),  but  the  poor 
gentleman  has  just  recovered  from  his  lunacies,  and  that 
begets  pity,  and  pity  love,  and  love  admiration ;  and  then 
it  goes  hard  with  people,  but  they  lie  !  Have  you  read 
the  Ballad  called  "  Leonora,"  in  the  second  Number  of 
the  Monthly  Magazine  ?  If  you  have  !  !  !  !  There  ia 
another  fine  song,  from  the  same  author  (Burger),  in  the 
third  Number,  of  scarce  inferior  merit ;  and  (vastly  below 


TO  COLERIDGE.  31 

these)  there  are  some  happy  specimens  of  English  hexa- 
meters, in  an  imitation  of  Ossian,  in  the  fifth  Number. 
For  your  Dactyls — I  am  sorry  you  are  so  sore  about  'em 
— a  very  Sir  Fretful !  In  good  troth,  the  Dactyls  are 
good  Dactyls,  but  their  measure  is  naught.  Be  not  your- 
self "  half  anger,  half  agony,"  If  I  pronounce  your  darling 
lines  not  to  be  the  best  you  ever  wrote — you  have  written 
much. 

Have  a  care,  good  Master  Poet,  of  the  Statute  de 
Contumelid.  What  do  you  mean  by  calling  Madame 
Mara  "harlot"  and  other  naughty  things?  The  good- 
ness of  the  verse  would  not  save  you  in  a  Court  of  Justice. 
But  are  you  really  coming  to  town  1  Coleridge,  a  gentle- 
man called  in  London  lately  from  Bristol,  and  inquired 
whether  there  were  any  of  the  family  of  a  Mr.  Chambers 
living :  this  Mr.  Chambers,  he  said,  had  been  the  making 
of  a  friend's  fortune,  who  wished  to  make  some  return 
for  it.  He  went  away  without  seeing  her.  Now,  a  Mrs. 
Reynolds,  a  very  intimate  friend  of  ours,  whom  you  have 
seen  at  our  house,  is  the  only  daughter,  and  all  that 
survives,  of  Mr.  Chambers ;  and  a  very  little  supply 
would  be  of  service  to  her,  for  she  married  very  unfor- 
tunately, and  has  parted  with  her  husband.  Pray  find 
out  this  Mr.  Pember  (for  that  was  the  gentleman's  friend's 
name) ;  he  is  an  attorney,  and  lives  at  Bristol.  Find 
him  out,  and  acquaint  him  with  the  circumstances  of  the 
case,  and  offer  to  be  the  medium  of  supply  to  Mrs.  Rey- 
nolds, if  he  chooses  to  make  her  a  present.  She  is  in 
very  distressed  circumstances.  Mr.  Pember,  attorney, 
Bristol.  Mr.  Chambers  lived  in  the  Temple;  Mrs. 
Reynolds,  his  daughter,  was  my  schoolmistress,  and  is  in 
the  room  at  this  present  writing.  This  last  circumstance 
induced  me  to  write  so  soon  again.  I  have  not  further 
to  add.  Our  loves  to  Sara.  0.  LAMB. 

Thursday. 


32  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LETTER  VIII.]  September  27,  1796. 

My  dearest  Friend — White,  or  some  of  my  friends, 
or  the  public  papers,  by  this  time  may  have  informed  you 
of  the  terrible  calamities  that  have  fallen  on  our  family. 
I  will  only  give  you  the  outlines  : — My  poor  dear,  dearest 
sister,  in  a  fit  of  insanity,  has  been  the  death  of  her  own 
mother.  I  was  at  hand  only  time  enough  to  snatch  the 
knife  out  of  her  grasp.  She  is  at  present  in  a  madhouse, 
from  whence  I  fear  she  must  be  moved  to  an  hospital. 
God  has  preserved  to  me  my  senses :  I  eat,  and  drink, 
and  sleep,  and  have  my  judgment,  I  believe,  very  sound. 
My  poor  father  was  slightly  wounded,  and  I  am  left  to 
take  care  of  him  and  my  aunt.  Mr.  Norris,  of  the  Blue- 
coat  School,  has  been  very  very  kind  to  us,  and  we  have 
no  other  friend  ;  but,  thank  God,  I  am  very  calm  and  com- 
posed, and  able  to  do  the  best  that  remains  to  do.  Write 
as  religious  a  letter  as  possible,  but  no  mention  of  what 
is  gone  and  done  with.  With  me  "  the  former  things  are 
passed  away,"  and  I  have  something  more  to  do  than  to 
feel 

God  Almighty  have  us  all  in  His  keeping ! 

C.  LAMB, 

Mention  nothing  of  poetry.  I  have  destroyed  every 
vestige  of  past  vanities  of  that  kind.  Do  as  you  please, 
but  if  you  publish,  publish  mine  (I  give  free  leave)  with- 
out name  or  initial,  and  never  send  me  a  book,  I  charge 
you. 

Your  own  judgment  will  convince  you  not  to  take  any 
notice  of  this  yet  to  your  dear  wife.  You  look  after  your 
family ;  I  have  my  reason  and  strength  left  to  take  care 
of  mine.  I  charge  you,  don't  think  of  coming  to  see  me. 
Write.  I  will  not  see  you  if  you  come.  God  Almighty 
love  you  and  all  of  us  1  C.  LAMB. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  33 

LETTEU  IX.]  October  3,  1796. 

My  dearest  Friend — Your  letter  was  an  inestimable 
treasure  to  me.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  you,  I  know,  to 
know  that  our  prospects  are  somewhat  brighter.  My 
poor  dear,  dearest  sister,  the  unhappy  and  unconscious 
instrument  of  the  Almighty's  judgments  on  our  house,  is 
restored  to  her  senses, — to  a  dreadful  sense  and  recollec- 
tion of  what  has  past,  awful  to  her  mind,  and  impressive 
(as  it  must  be  to  the  end  of  life),  but  tempered  with 
religious  resignation  and  the  reasonings  of  a  sound  judg- 
ment, which,  in  this  early  stage,  knows  how  to  distinguish 
between  a  deed  committed  in  a  transient  fit  of  frenzy  and 
the  terrible  guilt  of  a  mother's  murder.  I  have  seen  her. 
I  found  her,  this  morning,  calm  and  serene ;  far,  very  very 
far  from  an  indecent  forgetful  serenity :  she  has  a  most 
affectionate  and  tender  concern  for  what  has  happened. 
Indeed,  from  the  beginning — frightful  and  hopeless  as 
her  disorder  seemed — I  had  confidence  enough  in  her 
strength  of  mind  and  religious  principle,  to  look  forward 
to  a  time  when  even  sJie  might  recover  tranquillity.  God 
be  praised,  Coleridge !  wonderful  as  it  is  to  tell,  I  have 
never  once  been  otherwise  than  collected  and  calm ;  even 
on  the  dreadful  day,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  terrible  scene, 
I  preserved  a  tranquillity  which  bystanders  may  have 
construed  into  indifference — a  tranquillity  not  of  despair. 
Is  it  folly  or  sin  in  me  to  say  that  it  was  a  religious  prin- 
ciple that  most  supported  me  ?  I  allow  much  to  other 
favourable  circumstances.  I  felt  that  I  had  something 
else  to  do  than  to  regret.  On  that  first  evening  my  aunt 
was  lying  insensible — to  all  appearance  like  one  dying ; 
my  father,  with  his  poor  forehead  plaistered  over  from  a 
wound  he  had  received  from  a  daughter,  dearly  loved  by 
him,  and  who  loved  him  no  less  dearly ;  my  mother  a 
dead  and  murdered  corpse  in  the  next  room ;  yet  was  I 
wonderfully  supported.  I  closed  not  my  eyes  in  sleep 
that  night,  but  lay  without  terrors  and  without  despair. 
I  have  lost  no  sleep  since.  I  had  been  long  used  not  to 
D 


34  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

rest  in  things  of  sense, — had  endeavoured  after  a  compre- 
hension of  mind,  unsatisfied  with  the  "  ignorant  present 
time  ;"  and  this  kept  rne  up.  I  had  the  whole  weight  of 
the  family  thrown  on  me ;  for  my  brother,  little  disposed 
(I  speak  not  without  tenderness  for  him)  at  any  time  to 
take  care  of  old  age  and  infirm ities,  had  now,  with  his 
bad  leg,  an  exemption  from  such  duties,  and  I  was  now 
left  alone.  One  little  incident  may  serve  to  make  you 
understand  my  way  of  managing  my  mind  :  Within  a  day 
or  two  after  the  fatal  one,  we  dressed  for  dinner  a  tongue, 
which  we  had  had  salted  for  some  weeks  in  the  house. 
As  I  sat  down,  a  feeling  like  remorse  struck  me  :  this 
tongue  poor  Mary  got  for  me ;  and  can  I  partake  of  it 
now,  when  she  is  far  away?  A  thought  occurred  and 
relieved  me  : — if  I  give  into  this  way  of  feeling,  there  is 
not  a  chair,  a  room,  an  object  in  our  rooms,  that  will  not 
awaken  the  keenest  griefe.  I  must  rise  above  such 
weaknesses.  I  hope  this  was  not  want  of  true  feeling. 
I  did  not  let  this  carry  me,  though,  too  far.  On  the  very 
second  day  (I  date  from  the  day  of  horrors),  as  is  usual 
in  such  cases,  there  were  a  matter  of  twenty  people,  I  do 
think,  supping  in  our  room  :  they  prevailed  on  me  to  eat 
with  tfiem  (for  to  eat  I  never  refused).  They  were  all 
making  merry  in  the  room  !  Some  had  come  from  friend- 
ship, some  from  busy  curiosity,  and  some  from  interest. 
I  was  going  to  partake  with  them,  when  my  recollection 
came  that  my  poor  dead  mother  was  lying  in  the  next 
room — the  very  next  room  ; — a  mother  who,  through  life, 
wished  nothing  but  her  children's  welfare.  Indignation, 
the  rage  of  grief,  something  like  remorse,  rushed  upon 
my  mind.  In  an  agony  of  emotion  I  found  my  way 
mechanically  to  the  adjoining  room,  and  fell  on  my  knees 
by  the  side  of  her  coffin,  asking  forgiveness  of  Heaven, 
and  sometimes  of  her,  for  forgetting  her  so  soon.  Tran- 
quillity returned,  and  it  was  the  only  violent  emotion  that 
mastered  me.  I  think  it  did  me  good. 

I  mention  these  things  because  I  hate  concealment, 
and  love  to  give  a  faithful  journal  of  what  passes  within 


TO  COLERIDGE.  35 

me.  Our  friends  have  been  very  good.  Sam  Le  Grice, 
who  was  then  in  town,  was  with  me  the  first  three  or 
four  days,  and  was  as  a  brother  to  me ;  gave  up  every 
hour  of  his  time,  to  the  very  hurting  of  his  health  and 
spirits,  in  constant  attendance  and  humouring  my  poor 
father  ;  talked  with  him,  read  to  him,  played  at  cribbage 
with  him  (for  so  short  is  the  old  man's  recollection,  that 
he  was  playing  at  cards,  as  though  nothing  had  happened, 
while  the  coroner's  inquest  was  sitting  over  the  way !) 
Samuel  wept  tenderly  when  he  went  away,  for  his  mother 
wrote  him  a  very  severe  letter  on  his  loitering  so  long  in 
town,  and  he  was  forced  to  go.  Mr.  N  orris,  of  Christ's 
Hospital,  has  been  as  a  father  to  me — Mrs.  Norris  as  a 
mother  ;  though  we  had  few  claims  on  them.  A  gentle- 
man, brother  to  my  godmother,  from  whom  we  never  had 
right  or  reason  to  expect  any  such  assistance,  sent  my 
father  twenty  pounds ;  and  to  crown  all  these  God's 
blessings  to  our  family  at  such  a  time,  an  old  lady,  a 
cousin  of  my  father  and  aunt's,  a  gentlewoman  of  fortune, 
is  to  take  my  aunt  and  make  her  comfortable  for  the  short 
remainder  of  her  days.  My  aunt  is  recovered,  and  as  well 
as  ever,  and  highly  pleased  at -thoughts  of  going — and 
has  generously  given  up  the  interest  of  her  little  money 
(which  was  formerly  paid  my  father  for  her  board) 
wholely  and  solely  to  my  sister's  use.  Reckoning  this, 
we  have,  Daddy  and  I,  for  our  two  selves  and  an  old 
maid-servant  to  look  after  him,  when  I  am  out,  which 
will  be  necessary,  £170  (or  £180  rather)  a-year,  out  of 
which  we  can  spare  £50  or  £60  at  least  for  Mary  while 
she  stays  at  Islington,  where  she  must  and  shall  stay 
during  her  father's  life,  for  his  and  her  comfort.  I  know 
John  will  make  speeches  about  it,  but  she  shall  not  go 
into  an  hospital.  The  good  lady  of  the  madhouse,  and 
her  daughter,  an  elegant,  sweet-behaved  young  lady,  love 
her,  and  are  taken  with  her  amazingly ;  and  I  know  from 
her  own  mouth  she  loves  them,  and  longs  to  be  with  them 
as  much.  Poor  thing,  they  say  she  was  but  the  other 
morning  saying  she  knew  she  must  go  to  Bethlem  for 


36  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

life ;  that  one  of  her  brothers  would  have  it  so,  but  the 
other  would  wish  it  not,  but  be  obliged  to  go  with  the 
stream ;  that  she  had  often  as  she  passed  Bethlem  thought 
it  likely,  "  here  it  may  be  my  fate  to  end  my  days,"  con- 
scious of  a  certain  flightiness  in  her  poor  head  oftentimes, 
and  mindful  of  more  than  one  severe  illness  of  that  nature 
before.  A  legacy  of  £100,  which  my  father  will  have  at 
Christmas,  and  this  £20  I  mentioned  before,  with  what 
is  in  the  house,  will  much  more  than  set  us  clear.  If  my 
father,  an  old  servant  maid,  and  I,  can't  live,  and  live 
comfortably,  on  £130  or  £120  a-year,  we  ought  to  burn 
by  slow  fires ;  and  I  almost  would,  that  Mary  might  not 
go  into  an  hospital.  Let  me  not  leave  one  unfavourable 
impression  on  your  mind  respecting  my  brother.  Since 
this  has  happened,  he  has  been  very  kind  and  brotherly ; 
but  I  fear  for  his  mind :  he  has  taken  his  ease  in  the 
world,  and  is  not  fit  himself  to  struggle  with  difficulties, 
nor  has  much  accustomed  himself  to  throw  himself  into 
their  way ;  and  I  know  his  language  is  already,  "  Charles, 
you  must  take  care  of  yourself;  you  must  not  abridge 
yourself  of  a  single  pleasure  you  have  been  used  to,"  etc. 
etc.,  and  in  that  style  of  talking.  But  you,  a  Necessarian, 
can  respect  a  difference  of  mind,  and  love  what  is  amiable 
in  a  character  not  perfect.  He  has  been  very  good ;  but 
I  fear  for  his  mind.  Thank  God,  I  can  unconnect  myself 
with  him,  and  shall  manage  all  my  father's  moneys  in 
future  myself,  if  I  take  charge  of  Daddy,  which  poor  John 
has  not  even  hinted  a  wish,  at  any  future  time  even,  to 
share  with  me.  The  lady  at  this  madhouse  assures  me 
that  I  may  dismiss  immediately  both  doctor  and  apothe- 
cary, retaining  occasionally  a  composing  draught  or  so  for 
a  while ;  and  there  is  a  less  expensive  establishment  in 
her  house,  where  she  will  only  not  have  a  room  and  nurse 
to  herself,  for  £50  or  guineas  a-year — the  outside  would 
be  £60.  You  know,  by  economy,  how  much  more  even 
I  shall  be  able  to  spare  for  her  comforts.  She  will  I 
fancy,  if  she  stays,  make  one  of  the  family,  rather  than 
of  the  patients;  and  the  old  and  young  ladies  I  like 


TO  COLERIDGE.  3? 

exceedingly,  and  she  loves  dearly ;  and  they,  as  the 
saying  is,  take  to  her  very  extraordinarily,  if  it  is  extra- 
ordinary that  people  who  see  ray  sister  should  love  her. 
Of  all  the  people  I  ever  saw  in  the  world,  my  poor  sister 
was  most  and  thoroughly  devoid  of  the  least  tincture  of 
selfishness.  I  will  enlarge  upon  her  qualities,  poor  dear, 
dearest  soul,  in  a  future  letter,  for  my  own  comfort,  for  I 
understand  her  thoroughly ;  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the 
most  trying  situation  that  a  human  being  can  be  found 
in,  she  will  be  found — (I  speak  not  with  sufficient 
humility,  I  fear),  but  humanly  and  foolishly  speaking,  she 
will  be  found,  I  trust,  uniformly  great  and  amiable.  God 
keep  her  in  her  present  mind  ! — to  whom  be  thanks  and 
praise  for  all  His  dispensations  to  mankind. 

C.  LAMB. 

These  mentioned  good  fortunes  and  change  of  prospects 
had  almost  brought  my  mind  over  to  the  extreme,  the 
very  opposite  to  despair.  I  was  in  danger  of  making 
myself  too  happy.  Your  letter  brought  me  back  to  a 
view  of  things  which  I  had  entertained  from  the  begin- 
ning. I  hope  (for  Mary  I  can  answer) — but  I  hope  that 
/  shall  through  life  never  have  less  recollection  nor  a 
fainter  impression  of  what  has  happened  than  I  have  now. 
'Tis  not  a  light  thing,  nor  meant  by  the  Almighty  to  be 
received  lightly.  I  must  be  serious,  circumspect,  and 
deeply  religious  through  life;  and  by  such  means  may 
both  of  us  escape  madness  in  future,  if  it  so  please  the 
Almighty. 

Send  me  word  how  it  fares  with  Sara.  I  repeat  it, 
your  letter  was,  and  will  be,  an  inestimable  treasure  to 
me.  You  have  a  view  of  what  my  situation  demands  of 
me,  like  my  own  view,  and  I  trust  a  just  one. 

Coleridge,  continue  to  write  ;  but  do  not  for  ever  offend 
me  by  talking  of  sending  me  cash.  Sincerely,  and  on  my 
soul,  we  do  not  want  it.  God  love  you  both  ! 

I  will  write  again  very  soon.     Do  you  write  directly. 


38  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LETTER  X.]  October  17,  1796. 

My  dearest  Friend — I  grieve  from  my  very  scml  to 
observe  you,  in  your  plans  of  life,  veering  about  from  this 
hope  to  the  other,  and  settling  nowhere.  Is  it  an  un- 
toward fatality  (speaking  humanly)  that  does  this  for  you 
— a  stubborn,  irresistible  concurrence  of  events  1  or  lies 
the  fault,  as  I  fear  it  does,  in  your  own  mind  1  You  seem 
to  be  taking  up  splendid  schemes  of  fortune  only  to  lay 
them  down  again  ;  and  your  fortunes  are  an  ignis  fatuus 
that  has  been  conducting  you,  in  thought,  from  Lancaster 
Court,  Strand,  to  somewhere  near  Matlock ;  then  jumping 
across  to  Dr.  Somebody's,  whose  son's  tutor  you  were 
likely  to  be  •  and  would  to  God  the  dancing  demon  may 
conduct  you  at  last,  in  peace  and  comfort,  to  the  "life 
and  labours  of  a  cottager."  You  see,  from  the  above 
awkward  playfulness  of  fancy,  that  my  spirits  are  not 
quite  depressed.  I  should  ill  deserve  God's  blessings, 
which,  since  the  late  terrible  event,  have  come  down  in 
mercy  upon  us,  if  I  indulged  regret  or  querulousness. 
Mary  continues  serene  and  cheerful.  I  have  not  by  me 
a  little  letter  she  wrote  to  me ;  for,  though  I  see  her 
almost  every  day,  yet  v.'e  delight  to  write  to  one  another, 
for  we  can  scarce  see  each  other  but  in  company  with 
some  of  the  people  of  the  house. 

I  have  not  the  letter  by  me,  but  will  quote  from 
memory  what  she  wrote  in  it :  "I  have  no  bad  terrifying 
dreams.  At  midnight,  when  I  happen  to  awake,  the 
nurse  sleeping  by  the  side  of  me,  with  the  noise  of  the 
poor  mad  people  around  me,  I  have  no  fear.  The  spirit 
of  my  mother  seems  to  descend  and  smile  upon  me,  and 
bid  me  live  to  enjoy  the  life  and  reason  which  the  Al 
mighty  has  given  me.  I  shall  see  her  again  in  heaven  : 
she  will  then  understand  me  better.  My  grandmother, 
too,  will  understand  me  better,  and  will  then  say  no  more, 
as  she  used  to  do,  '  Polly,  what  are  those  poor  crazy 
moythered  brains  of  yours  thinking  of  always  ?'"  Pool 
Mary  !  my  mother  indeed  never  understood  her  right 


TO  COLERIDGE.  39 

She  loved  her,  as  she  loved  us  all,  with  a  mother's  love ; 
biit  in  opinion,  in  feeling,  and  sentiment,  and  disposition, 
Iwre  so  distant  a  resemblance  to  her  daughter,  that  she 
never  understood  her  right ;  never  could  believe  how 
much  she  loved  her ;  but  met  her  caresses,  her  protesta- 
tions of  filial  affection,  too  frequently  with  coldness  and 
repulse.  Still  she  was  a  good  mother.  God  forbid  I 
should  think  of  her  but  most  respectfully,  most  affection- 
ately. Yet  she  would  always  love  my  brother  above 
Mary,  who  was  not  worthy  of  one-tenth  of  that  affection 
which  Mary  had  a  right  to  claim.  But  it  is  my  sister's 
gratifying  recollection  that  every  act  of  duty  and  of  love 
she  could  pay,  every  kindness  (and  I  speak  true,  when  I 
say  to  the  hurting  of  her  health,  and,  most  probably,  in 
great  part  to  the  derangement  of  her  senses),  through  a 
long  course  of  infirmities  and  sickness,  she  could  show 
her,  she  ever  did.  I  will,  some  day,  as  I  promised, 
enlarge  to  you  upon  my  sister's  excellences :  'twill  seem 
like  exaggeration  ;  but  I  will  do  it.  At  present,  short 
letters  suit  my  state  of  mind  best.  So  take  my  kindest 
wishes  for  your  comfort  and  establishment  in  life,  and  for 
Sara's  welfare  and  comforts  with  you  1  God  love  you ! 
God  love  us  all !  C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  XL]  October  24,  1796. 

Coleridge,  I  feel  myself  much  your  debtor  for  that 
spirit  of  confidence  and  friendship  which  dictated  your 
last  letter.  May  your  soul  find  peace  at  last  in  your 
cottage  life  !  I  only  wish  you  were  but  settled.  Do 
continue  to  write  to  me.  I  read  your  letters  with  my 
sister,  and  they  give  us  both  abundance  of  delight. 
Especially  they  please  us  when  you  talk  in  a  religious 
strain  :  not  but  we  are  offended  occasionally  with  a  certain 
freedom  of  expression,  a  certain  air  of  mysticism,  more 
consonant  to  the  conceits  of  pagan  philosophy  than  con- 
sistent with  the  humility  of  genuine  piety.  To  instance 
DOW,  in  your  last  letter  you  say,  "  It  is  by  the  press  that 


40 

God  hath  given  finite  spirits,  both  evil  and  good  (I  suppose 
you  mean  simply  bad  men  and  good  men),  a  portion  as  it 
were  of  His  Omnipresence!"  Now,  high  as  the  human 
intellect  comparatively  will  soar,  and  wide  as  its  influence, 
malign  or  salutary,  can  extend,  is  there  not,  Coleridge,  a 
distance  between  the  Divine  Mind  and  it,  which  makes 
such  language  blasphemy  1  Again,  in  your  first  fine  con- 
solatory epistle,  you  say,  "  you  are  a  temporary  sharer  in 
human  misery,  that  you  may  be  an  eternal  partaker  of 
the  Divine  Nature."  What  more  than  this  do  those  men 
say  who  are  for  exalting  the  man  Christ  Jesus  into  the 
second  person  of  an  unknown  Trinity  ? — men  whom  you 
or  I  scruple  not  to  call  idolaters.  Man,  full  of  imperfec- 
tions at  best,  and  subject  to  wants  which  momentarily 
remind  him  of  dependence ;  man,  a  weak  and  ignorant 
being,  "servile"  from  his  birth  "to  all  the  skiey  in- 
fluences," with  eyes  sometimes  open  to  discern  the  right 
path,  but  a  head  generally  too  dizzy  to  pursue  it ;  man, 
in  the  pride  of  speculation,  forgetting  his  nature,  and 
hailing  in  himself  the  future  God,  must  make  the  angels 
laugh.  Be  not  angry  with  me  Coleridge  :  I  wish  not  to 
cavil ;  I  know  I  cannot  instruct  you ;  I  only  wish  to 
remind  you  of  that  humility  which  best  becometh  the 
Christian  character.  God,  in  the  New  Testament  (our 
best  guide),  is  represented  to  us  in  the  kind,  condescend- 
ing, amiable,  familiar  light  of  a, parent;  and  in  my  poor 
mind  'tis  best  for  us  so  to  consider  of  him,  as  our  heavenly 
father,  and  our  best  friend,  without  indulging  too  bold 
conceptions  of  his  nature.  Let  us  learn  to  think  humbly 
of  ourselves,  and  rejoice  in  the  appellation  of  "dear 
children,"  "  brethren,"  and  "  co-heirs  with  Christ  of  the 
promises,"  seeking  to  know  no  further. 

I  am  not  insensible,  indeed  I  am  not,  of  the  value  of 
that  first  letter  of  yours,  and  I  shall  find  reason  to  thank 
you  for  it  again  and  again,  long  after  that  blemish  in  it 
is  forgotten.  It  will  be  a  fine  lesson  of  comfort  to  us, 
whenever  we  read  it ;  and  read  it  we  often  shall,  Ma>-y 
and  I. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  41 

Accept  our  loves  and  best  kind  wishes  for  the  welfare 
of  yourself  and  wife  and  little  one.  Nor  let  me  forget  to 
wish  you  joy  on  your  birthday,  so  lately  past ;  I  thought 
you  had  been  older.  My  kind  thanks  and  remembrances 
to  Lloyd. 

God  love  us  all ! — and  may  He  continue  to  be  the 
father  aud  the  friend  of  the  whole  human  race  ! 

Sunday  Evening.  C.  LAMB. 

LETTER  XII.]  October  28,  1796. 

My  dear  Friend — I  am  not  ignorant  that  to  be  "a 
partaker  of  the  Divine  Nature "  is  a  phrase  to  be  met 
with  in  Scripture :  I  am  only  apprehensive,  lest  we  in 
these  latter  days,  tinctured  (some  of  us  perhaps  pretty 
deeply)  with  mystical  notions  and  the  pride  of  meta- 
physics, might  be  apt  to  affix  to  such  phrases  a  meaning, 
which  the  primitive  users  of  them,  the  simple  fishermen 
of  Galilee  for  instance,  never  intended  to  convey.  With 
that  other  part  of  your  apology  I  am  not  quite  so  well 
satisfied.  You  seem  to  me  to  have  been  straining  your 
comparing  faculties  to  bring  together  things  infinitely 
distant  and  unlike, — the  feeble  narrow-sphered  operations 
of  the  human  intellect  and  the  everywhere  diifused  mind 
of  Deity,  the  peerless  wisdom  of  Jehovah.  Even  the 
expression  appears  to  me  inaccurate — "  portion  of  Omni- 
presence." Omnipresence  is  an  attribute  the  very  essence 
of  which  is  uulimitedness.  How  can  Omnipresence  be 
affirmed  of  anything  in  part  ?  But  enough  of  this  spirit 
of  disputatiousness.  Let  us  attend  to  the  proper  business 
of  human  life,  and  talk  a  little  together  respecting  our 
domestic  concerns.  Do  you  continue  to  make  me  ac- 
quainted with  v  hat  you  are  doing,  and  how  soon  you 
are  likely  to  be  settled,  once  for  all. 

I  have  satisfaction  in  being  able  to  bid  you  rejoice 
witli  me  in  my  sister's  continued  reason,  and  composed- 
ness  of  mind.  Let  us  both  be  thankful  for  it.  I  continue 
to  visit  her  very  frequently,  and  the  people  of  the  house 


42  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LASIR 

are  vastly  indulgent  to  her.  She  is  likely  to  be  as  com- 
fortably situated  in  all  respects  as  those  who  pay  twice 
or  thrice  the  sum.  They  love  her,  and  she  loves  them 
and  makes  herself  very  useful  to  them.  Benevolence  sets 
out  on  her  journey  with  a  good  heart,  and  puts  a  good 
face  on  it,  but  is  apt  to  limp  and  grow  feeble,  unless  she 
calls  in  the  aid  of  self-interest,  by  way  of  crutch.  In 
Mary's  case,  as  far  as  respects  those  she  is  with,  'tis  well 
that  these  principles  are  so  likely  to  co-operate.  I  am 
rather  at  a  loss  sometimes  for  books  for  her :  our  reading 
is  somewhat  confined,  and  we  have  nearly  exhausted  our 
London  library.  She  has  her  hands  too  full  of  work  to 
read  much  ;  but  a  little  she  must  read,  for  reading  was 
her  daily  bread. 

Have  you  seen  Bowles's  new  poem  on  "  Hope  1"  What 
character  does  it  bear  1  Has  he  exhausted  his  stores  of 
tender  plaintiveness  1  or  is  he  the  same  in  this  last  as  in 
all  his  former  pieces  ?  The  duties  of  the  day  call  me  off 
from  this  pleasant  intercourse  with  my  friend :  so  for 
the  present  adieu. 

Now  for  the  truant  borrowing  of  a  few  minutes  from 
business.  Have  you  met  with  a  new  poem  called  the 
Pursuits  of  Literature  ?  From  the  extracts  in  the  British 
Review  I  judge  it  to  be  a  very  humorous  thing.  In 
particular,  I  remember  what  I  thought  a  very  happy 
character  of  Dr.  Darwin's  poetry.  Among  all  your  quaint 
readings  did  your  ever  light  upon  Walton's  Complete 
Angler  ?  I  asked  you  the  question  once  before :  it 
breathes  the  very  spirit  of  innocence,  purity,  and  sim- 
plicity of  heart.  There  are  many  choice  old  verses 
interspersed  in  it.  It  would  sweeten  a  man's  temper  at 
any  time  to  read  it ;  it  would  Christianise  every  discordant 
angry  passion.  Pray  make  yourself  acquainted  with  it. 
Have  you  made  it  up  with  Southey  yet  ?  Surely  one  of 
you  two  must  have  been  a  very  silly  fellow,  and  the 
other  not  much  better,  to  fall  out  like  boarding-school 
misses.  Kiss,  shake  hands,  and  make  it  up. 

When  will  he  be  delivered  of  his  new  epic  ?     Madoc, 


TO  COLERIDGE.  43 

I  think,  is  to  be  the  name  of  it ;  though  that  is  a  name 
not  familiar  to  my  ears.  What  progress  do  you  make 
in  your  hymns?  What  Review  are  you  connected  with? 
If  with  any,  why  do  you  delay  to  notice  White's  book  ? 
You  are  justly  offended  at  its  profaneness ;  but  surely 
you  have  undervalued  its  wit,  or  you  would  have  been 
more  loud  in  its  praises.  Do  not  you  think  that  in 
Slender's  death  and  madness  there  is  most  exquisite 
humour,  mingled  with  tenderness,  that  is  irresistible, 
truly  Shakspearian  ?  Be  more  full  in  your  mention  of  it. 
Poor  fellow,  he  has  (very  undeservedly)  lost  by  it ;  nor 
do  I  see  that  it  is  likely  ever  to  reimburse  him  the  charge 
of  printing,  etc.  Give  it  a  lift,  if  you  can.  I  suppose 
you  know  that  Allen's  wife  is  dead,  and  he,  just  situated 
as  he  was,  never  the  better,  as  the  worldly  people  say, 
for  her  death,  her  money  with  her  children  being  taken 
off  his  hands.  I  am  just  now  wondering  whether  you 
will  ever  come  to  town  again,  Coleridge ;  'tis  among  the 
things  I  dare  not  hope,  but  can't  help  wishing.  For 
myself,  I  can  live  in  the  midst  of  town  luxury  and  super- 
fluity, and  not  long  for  them,  and  I  can't  see  why  your 
children  might  not  hereafter  do  the  same.  Remember, 
you  are  not  in  Arcadia  when  you  are  in  the  west  of 
England,  and  they  may  catch  infection  from  the  world 
without  visiting  the  metropolis.  But  you  seem  to  have 
Bet  your  heart  upon  this  same  cottage  plan;  and  God 
prosper  you  in  the  experiment !  I  am  at  a  loss  for  more 
to  write  about ;  so  'tis  as  well  that  I  am  arrived  at  the 
bottom  of  my  paper. 

God  love  you,  Coleridge ! — Our  best  loves  and  tenderest 
wishes  await  on  you,  your  Sara,  and  your  little  one. 

0.  L. 


LETTER  XIII.]  November  8,  1798. 

My  brother,  my  friend, — I  am  distress'd  for  you, 
believe  me  I  am ;  not  so  much  for  your  painful,  trouble- 
some complaint,  which,  I  trust,  is  only  for  a  time,  as  for 


44  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

those  anxieties  which  brought  it  on,  and  perhaps  even 
now  may  be  nursing  its  malignity.  Tell  me,  dearest  of 
my  friends,  is  your  mind  at  peace  1  or  has  anything,  yet 
unknown  to  me,  happened  to  give  you  fresh  disquiet,  and 
steal  from  you  all  the  pleasant  dreams  of  future  rest  "! 
Are  you  still  (I  fear  you  are)  far  from  being  comfortably 
settled?  Would  to  God  it  were  in  my  power  to  con- 
tribute towards  the  bringing  of  you  into  the  haven  where 
you  would  be !  But  you  are  too  well  skilled  in  the 
philosophy  of  consolation  to  need  my  humble  tribute  of 
advice.  In  pain,  and  in  sickness,  and  in  all  manner  of 
disappointments,  I  trust  you  have  that  within  you  which 
shall  speak  peace  to  your  mind.  Make  it,  I  entreat  you, 
one  of  your  puny  comforts,  that  I  feel  for  you,  and  share 
all  your  griefs  with  you,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  troubling 
you  about  little  things,  now  I  am  going  to  resume  the 
subject  of  our  last  two  letters  ;  but  it  may  divert  us  both 
from  unpleasanter  feelings  to  make  such  matters,  in  a 
manner,  of  importance.  Without  further  apology,  then, 
it  was  not  that  I  did  not  relish,  that  I  did  not  in  my 
heart  thank  you  for  those  little  pictures  of  your  feelings 
which  you  lately  sent  me,  if  I  neglected  to  mention  them. 
You  may  remember  you  had  said  much  the  same  things 
before  to  me  on  the  same  subject  in  a  former  letter,  and 
I  considered  those  last  verses  as  only  the  identical  thoughts 
better  clothed ;  either  way  (in  prose  or  verse)  such  poetry 
must  be  welcome  to  me.  I  love  them  as  I  love  the 
Confessions  of  Rousseau,  and  for  the  same  reason :  the 
same  frankness,  the  same  openness  of  heart,  the  same 
disclosure  of  all  the  most  hidden  and  delicate  affections 
of  the  mind.  They  make  me  proud  to  be  thus  esteemed 
worthy  of  the  place  of  friend-confessor,  brother-confessor, 
to  a  man  like  Coleridge.  This  last  is,  I  acknowledge, 
language  too  high  for  friendship ;  but  it  is  also,  I  declare, 
too  sincere  for  flattery.  Now,  to  put  on  stilts,  and  talk 
magnificently  about  trifles, — I  condescend,  then,  to  your 
counsel,  Coleridge,  and  allow  my  first  Sonnet  (sick  to 
death  am  I  to  make  mention  of  my  Sonnets,  and  I  blasb 


TO  COLERIDGE.  45 

to  be  so  taken  up  with  them,  indeed  I  do) ;  I  allow  it  to 
run  thus :  Fairy  Land,  etc.  etc.,  as  I  last  wrote  it. 

The  Fragments  I  now  send  you,  I  want  printed  to 
get  rid  of  'em ;  for,  while  they  stick  burr-like  to  my 
memory,  they  tempt  me  to  go  on  with  the  idle  trade  of 
versifying,  which  I  long  (most  sincerely  I  speak  it)  I  long 
to  leave  off,  for  it  is  unprofitable  to  my  soul ;  I  feel  it 
is ;  and  these  questions  about  words,  and  debates  about 
alterations,  -take  me  off,  I  am  conscious,  from  the  properer 
business  of  my  life.  Take  my  Sonnets,  once  for  all ;  and 
do  not  propose  any  reamendments,  or  mention  them 
again  in  any  shape  to  me,  I  charge  you.  I  blush  that 
my  mind  can  consider  them  as  things  of  any  worth. 
And,  pray,  admit  or  reject  these  fragments  as  you  like  or 
dislike  them,  without  ceremony.  Call  'em  Sketches, 
Fragments,  or  what  you  will ;  but  do  not  entitle  any  of 
my  things  Love  Sonnets,  as  I  told  you  to  call  'em  ;  'twill 
only  make  me  look  little  in  my  own  eyes;  for  it  is  a 
passion  of  which  I  retain  nothing.  'Twas  a  weakness, 
concerning  which  I  may  say,  in  the  words  of  Petrarch 
(whose  Life  is  now  open  before  me),  "  if  it  drew  me  out 
of  some  vices,  it  also  prevented  the  growth  of  many 
virtues,  filling  me  with  the  love  of  the  creature  rather 
than  the  Creator,  which  is  the  death  of  the  soul."  Thank 
God,  the  folly  has  left  me  for  ever.  Not  even  a  review 
of  my  love  verses  renews  one  wayward  wish  in  me ;  and 
if  I  am  at  all  solicitous  to  trim  'em  out  iu  their  best 
apparel,  it  is  because  they  are  to  make  their  appearance 
in  good  company.  Now  to  my  fragments.  Lest  you 
have  lost  my  "  Grandame,"  she  shall  be  one.  'Tis  among 
the  few  verses  I  ever  wrote :  that  to  Mary  is  another, 
which  profit  me  in  the  recollection.  God  love  her ! — and 
may  we  two  never  love  each  other  less  ! 

These,  Coleridge,  are  the  few  sketches  I  have  thought 
worth  preserving.  How  will  they  relish  thus  detached  ? 
Will  you  reject  all  or  any  of  them  1  They  are  thine  :  do 
whatsoever  thou  listest  with  them.  My  eyes  ache  with 


46  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LASIB. 

writing  long  and  late,  and  I  wax  wondrous  sleepy.     God 
bless  you  and  yours,  me  and  mine  !     Good-night. 

C.  LAMB. 

I  will  keep  my  eyes  open  reluctantly  a  minute  longer 
to  tell  you  that  I  love  you  for  those  simple,  tender,  heai-t- 
flowing  lines  with  which  you  conclude  your  last,  and  in 
my  eyes  best,  "Sonnet"  (so  you  call  'em) — 

"  So,  for  the  mother's  sake,  the  child  was  dear ; 
And  dearer  was  the  mother  for  the  child." 

Cultivate  simplicity,  Coleridge ;  or  rather,  I  should 
say,  banish  elaborateness ;  for  simplicity  springs  spon- 
taneous from  the  heart,  and  carries  into  daylight  its  own 
modest  buds,  and  genuine,  sweet,  and  clear  flowers  of 
expression.  I  allow  no  hot- beds  in  the  gardens  of 
Parnassus.  I  am  unwilling  to  go  to  bed  and  leave  my 
sheet  unfilled  (a  good  piece  of  night-work  for  an  idle 
body  like  me),  so  will  finish  with  begging  you  to  send 
me  the  earliest  account  of  your  complaint,  its  progress. 
or  (as  I  hope  to  God  you  will  be  able  to  send  me)  the 
tale  of  your  recovery,  or  at  least  amendment.  My 
tenderest  remembrances  to  your  Sara 

Once  more,  Good-night. 

LETTER  XIV.]  November  14,  1796. 

Coleridge,  I  love  you  for  dedicating  your  poetry  to 
Bowles.  Genius  of  the  sacred  fountain  of  tear.?,  it  was 
he  who  led  you  gently  by  the  hand  through  all  this 
valley  of  weeping ;  showed  you  the  dark  green  yew  trees, 
and  the  willow  shades,  where,  by  the  fall  of  waters,  you 
might  indulge  an  uncomplaining  melancholy,  a  delicious 
regret  for  the  past,  or  weave  fine  visions  of  that  awful 
future, 

"  When  all  the  vanities  of  life's  brief  day 
Oblivion's  hurrying  hand  hath  swept  away, 
And  all  its  sorrows,  at  the  awful  blast 
Of  the  archangel's  trump,  are  but  as  shadows  past." 

I  have  another  sort  of  dedication  in  my  head  for  my 


TO  COLERIDGL'.  47 

few  things,  which  I  want  to  know  if  you  approve  of,  and 
can  insert.  I  mean  to  inscribe  them  to  my  sister.  It 
will  be  unexpected,  and  it  will  give  her  pleasure ;  or  do 
you  think  it  will  look  whimsical  at  all  ?  As  I  have  not 
spoke  to  her  about  it  I  can  easily  reject  the  idea.  But 
there  is  a  monotony  in  the  affections,  which  people  living 
together,  or,  as  we  do  now,  very  frequently  seeing  each 
other,  are  apt  to  give  in  to  ;  a  sort  of  indifference  in  the 
expression  of  kindness  for  each  other,  which  demands 
that  we  should  sometimes  call  to  our  aid  the  trickery  of 
surprise.  Do  you  publish  with  Lloyd,  or  without  him  1 
In  either  case  my  little  portion  may  come  last ;  and  after 
the  fashion  of  orders  to  a  country  correspondent,  I  will 
give  directions  how  I  should  like  to  have  'em  done.  The 
title-page  to  stand  thus  : — 

POEMS, 

BY 

CHARLES  LAMB,  OF  THE  INDIA  HOUSE. 

Under  this  title  the  following  motto,  which,  for  want 
of  room,  I  put  over  leaf,  and  desire  you  to  insert,  whether 
you  like  it  or  no.  May  not  a  gentleman  choose  what 
arms,  mottoes,  or  armorial  bearings  the  Herald  will  give 
him  leave,  without  consulting  his  republican  friend,  who 
might  advise  none  ?  May  not  a  publican  put  up  the 
sign  of  the  Saracen's  Head,  even  though  his  uudiscern- 
ing  neighbour  should  prefer,  as  more  genteel,  the  Cat 
and  Gridiron  ? 

[MOTTO.] 

"  This  beauty,  in  the  blossom  of  my  youth, 
When  my  first  fire  knew  no  r.dulterate  incense, 
Nor  I  no  way  to  flatter  but  my  fondness, 
In  the  best  language  my  true  tongue  could  tell  me, 
And  all  the  broken  sighs  my  sick  heart  lend  me, 
I  sued  and  served.     Long  did  I  love  this  lady." 

MASSINGKB. 


48  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

THE  DEDICATION. 


THE  FEW  FOLLOWING  POF.MS, 
CBEATURES  OF  THE  FANCY  AND  THE  FEELUfO 

IN  LIFE'S  MORE  VACANT  HOURS, 

PRODUCED,  FOR  THE  MOST  PART,  BT 

LOVE  IN  IDLENESS, 

ARE, 

wrra  ALL  A  BROTHER'S  FONDNESS, 

INSCRIBED  TO 

MARY  ANNE  LAMB, 
THE  AUTHOR'S  BEST  FRIEND  AND  SISTER. 


This  is  the  pomp  and  paraphernalia  of  parting,  with 
which  I  take  my  leave  of  a  passion  which  has  reigned  so 
royally  (so  long)  within  me ;  thus,  with  its  trappings  of 
laureatship,  I  fling  it  off,  pleased  and  satisfied  with  my- 
self that  the  weakness  troubles  me  no  longer.  I  am 
wedded,  Coleridge,  to  the  fortunes  of  my  sister  and  my 
poor  old  father.  Oh,  my  friend !  I  think  sometimes, 
could  I  recall  the  days  that  are  past,  which  among  them 
should  I  choose  ?  not  those  "  merrier  days,"  not  the 
"pleasant  days  of  hope,"  not  "those  wanderings  with  a 
fair-hair'd  maid,"  which  I  have  so  often  and  so  feelingly 
regretted,  but  the  days,  Coleridge,  of  a  mother's  fondness 
for  her  school-boy.  What  would  I  give  to  call  her  back 
to  earth  for  one  day  ! — on  my  knees  to  ask  her  pardon 
for  all  those  little  asperities  of  temper  which,  from  time 
to  time,  have  given  her  gentle  spirit  pain  ! — and  the  day, 
my  friend,  I  trust,  will  come.  There  will  be  "  time 
enough "  for  kind  offices  of  love,  if  "  Heaven's  eternal 
year "  be  ours.  Hereafter,  her  meek  spirit  shall  not 
reproach  me.  Oh,  my  friend,  cultivate  the  filial  feel- 
ings !  and  let  no  man  think  himself  released  from  the 
kind  "  charities "  of  relationship :  these  shall  give  him 
peace  at  the  last ;  these  are  the  best  foundation  for  every 
species  of  benevolence.  I  rejoice  to  hear,  by  certain 
channels,  that  you,  my  friend,  are  reconciled  with  all 


TO  COLERIDGE.  49 

your  relations.  'Tis  the  most  kindly  and  natural  species 
of  love,  and  we  have  all  the  associated  train  of  early 
feelings  to  secure  its  strength  and  perpetuity.  Send  me 
an  account  of  your  health  :  indeed  I  am  solicitous  about 
you.  God  love  you  and  yours.  C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  XV.]  December  2,  1796. 

I  have  delayed  writing  thus  long,  not  having  by  me 
my  copy  of  your  poems,  which  I  had  lent.  I  am  not 
satisfied  with  all  your  intended  omissions.  Why  omit 
40,  63,  84 1  Above  all,  let  me  protest  strongly  against 
your  rejecting  the  "  Complaint  of  Ninathoina,"  86.  The 
words,  I  acknowledge,  are  Ossian's,  but  you  have  added 
to  them  the  "music  of  Caril."  If  a  vicarious  substitute 
be  wanting,  sacrifice  (and  'twill  be  a  piece  of  self-denial 
too),  the  "  Epitaph  on  an  Infant,"  of  which  its  author 
seems  so  proud,  so  tenacious.  Or,  if  your  heart  be  set 
on  perpetuating  the  four-line  wonder,  I'll  tell  you  what 
do  ;  sell  the  copyright  of  it  at  once  to  a  country  statuaiy. 
Commence  in  this  manner  Death's  prime  poet-laureate ; 
and  let  your  verses  be  adopted  in  every  village  round, 
instead  of  those  hitherto  famous  ones  : — 

"  Afflictions  sore  long  time  I  bore ; 
Physicians  were  in  vain." 

I  have  seen  your  last  very  beautiful  poem  in  the 
Monthly  Magazine  :  write  thus,  and  you  most  generally 
have  written  thus,  and  I  shall  never  quarrel  with  you 
about  simplicity.  With  regard  to  my  lines — 

"  Laugh  all  that  weep,"  etc., 

I  would  willingly  sacrifice  them ;  but  my  portion  of  the 
volume  is  so  ridiculously  little,  that,  in  honest  truth,  I 
can't  spare  'em.  As  things  are,  I  \ave  very  slight  pre- 
tensions to  participate  in  the  title-page.  White's  book 
is  at  length  reviewed  in  the  Monthly  ;  was  it  your  doing, 
or  Dyer's,  to  whom  I  sent  him  1 — or,  rather,  do  you  not 
write  iu  the  Critical  ? — for  I  observed,  in  an  article  of 
I 


50  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

this  month's,  a  line  quoted  out  of  that  Sonnet  on  Mrs. 
Siddons, 

"  With  eager  wondering,  and  perturb'd  delight." 

And  a  line  from  tliat  Sonnet  would  not  readily  have 
occurred  to  a  stranger.  That  sonnet,  Coleridge,  brings 
afresh  to  my  mind  the  time  when  you  wrote  those  on 
Bowles,  Priestley,  Burke  ; — 'twas  two  Christmases  ago, 
and  in  that  nice  little  smoky  room  at  the  Salutation,  which 
is  even  now  continually  presenting  itself  to  my  recollection, 
with  all  its  associated  train  of  pipes,  tobacco,  egg-hot, 
welsh-rabbit,  metaphysics,  and  poetry. — Are  we  never  to 
meet  again  1  How  differently  I  am  circumstanced  now  ! 
I  have  never  met  with  anyone — never  shall  meet  with 
anyone — who  could  or  can  compensate  me  for  the  loss 
of  your  society.  I  have  no  one  to  talk  all  these  matters 
about  to ;  I  lack  friends.  I  lack  books  to  supply  their 
absence ;  but  these  complaints  ill  become  me.  Let  me 
compare  my  present  situation,  prospects,  and  state  of 
mind,  with  what  they  were  but  two  months  back — but 
two  months  !  0  my  friend,  I  am  in  danger  of  forgetting 
the  awful  lessons  then  presented  to  me  !  Remind  me  of 
them ;  remind  me  of  my  duty  !  Talk  seriously  with  me 
when  you  do  write !  I  thank  you,  from  my  heart  I 
thank  you,  for  your  solicitude  about  my  sister.  She  is 
quite  well,  but  must  not,  I  fear,  come  to  live  with  us  yet 
a  good  while.  In  the  first  place,  because,  at  present,  it 
would  hurt  her,  and  hurt  my  father,  for  them  to  be 
together ;  secondly,  from  a  regard  to  the  world's  good 
report ;  for,  I  fear,  tongues  will  be  busy  whenever  that 
event  takes  place.  Some  have  hinted,  one  man  has 
pressed  it  on  me,  that  she  should  be  in  perpetual  confine- 
ment :  what  she  hath  done  to  deserve,  or  the  necessity 
of  such  an  hardship,  I  see  not ;  do  you  ?  I  am  starving 
at  the  India  House, — near  seven  o'clock  without  my 
dinner ;  and  so  it  has  been,  and  will  be,  almost  all  the 
week.  I  get  home  at  night  o'erwearied,  quite  faint,  and 
then  to  cards  with  my  father,  who  will  not  let  me  enjoy 


TO  COLERIDGE.  51 

a  meal  in  peace ;  but  I  must  conform  to  my  situation  ; 
and  I  hope  1  am,  for  the  most  part,  not  unthankful. 

I  am  got  home  at  last,  and,  after  repeated  games  at 
oribbage,  have  got  my  father's  leave  to  write  awhile ; 
with  difficulty  got  it,  for  when  I  expostulated  about  play- 
ing any  more,  he  very  aptly  replied,  "  If  you  won't  play 
with  me,  you  might  as  well  not  come  home  at  all."  The 
argument  was  unanswerable,  and  I  set  to  afresh.  I  told 
you  I  do  not  approve  of  your  omissions;  neither  do  I 
quite  coincide  with  you  in  your  arrangements.  I  have 
not  time  to  point  out  a  better,  and  I  suppose  some  self- 
associations  of  your  own  have  determined  their  place  as 
they  now  stand.  Your  beginning,  indeed,  with  the  Joan 
of  Arc  lines,  I  coincide  entirely  with.  I  love  a  splendid 
outset — a  magnificent  portico  ;  and  the  diapason  is  grand. 
When  I  read  the  Religious  Musings,  I  think  how  poor, 
how  unelevated,  unoriginal,  my  blank  verse  is — "  Laugh 
all  that  weep,"  especially,  where  the  subject  demanded  a 
grandeur  of  conception  ;  and  I  ask  what  business  they 
have  among  yours  ?  but  friendship  covereth  a  multitude 
of  defects.  I  want  some  loppings  made  in  the  "  Chatter- 
ton  :"  it  wants  but  a  little  to  make  it  rank  among  the 
finest  irregular  lyrics  I  ever  read.  Have  you  time  and 
inclination  to  go  to  work  upon  it  1 — or  is  it  too  late  1 — or 
do  you  think  it  needs  none  ?  Don't  reject  those  verses 
in  your  Watchman,  "  Dear  native  brook,"  etc. ;  nor  I 
think  those  last  lines  you  sent  me,  in  which  "  all  effort- 
less "  is  without  doubt  to  be  preferred  to  "  inactive."  If 
I  am  writing  more  than  ordinarily  dully,  'tis  that  I  am 
stupified  with  a  tooth-ache.  Hang  it !  do  not  omit  48, 
52,  and  53  :  what  you  do  retain,  though,  call  Sonnets, 
for  heaven's  sake,  and  not  Effusions.  Spite  of  your  in- 
genious anticipation  of  ridicule  in  your  Preface,  the  last 
five  lines  of  50  are  too  good  to  be  lost ;  the  rest  are  not 
much  worth.  My  tooth  becomes  importunate :  I  must 
finish.  Pray,  pray,  write  to  me  :  if  you  knew  with  what 
an  anxiety  of  joy  I  open  such  a  long  packet  as  you  last 
gent  me,  you  would  not  grudge  giving  a  few  minutes  now 


52  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

and  then  to  this  intercourse  (the  only  intercourse  I  fear 
we  two  shall  ever  have) — this  conversation  with  your 
friend :  such  I  boast  to  be  called.  God  love  you  and 
yours  !  Write  to  me  when  you  move,  lest  I  should  direct 
wrong.  Has  Sara  no  poems  to  publish  1  Those  lines, 
129,  are  probably  too  light  for  the  volume  where  the 
Religioiis  Musings  are ;  but  I  remember  some  very 
beautiful  lines,  addressed  by  somebody  at  Bristol  to 
somebody  in  London.  God  bless  you  once  more. 
Thursday  Night.  C.  LAMB. 

LETTER  XVI.]  [Fragment]         December  5,  1796. 

At  length  I  have  done  with  verse-making ;  not  that  I 
relish  other  people's  poetry  less  :  theirs  comes  from  'em 
without  effort ;  mine  is  the  difficult  operation  of  a  brain 
scanty  of  ideas,  made  more  difficult  by  disuse.  I  have 
been  reading  "  The  Task  "  with  fresh  delight.  I  am  glad 
you  love  Cowper.  I  could  forgive  a  man  for  not  enjoying 
Milton ;  but  I  would  not  call  that  man  my  friend  who 
should  be  offended  with  the  "  divine  chit-chat  of  Cowper." 
Write  to  me,  God  love  you  and  yours  !  C.  L. 

LETTER  XVII.]  December  10,  1796. 

I  had  put  my  letter  into  the  post  rather  hastily,  not 
expecting  to  have  to  acknowledge  another  from  you  so 
soon.  This  morning's  present  has  made  me  alive  again. 
My  last  night's  epistle  was  childishly  querulous  :  but  you 
have  put  a  little  life  into  me,  and  I  will  thank  you 
for  your  remembrance  of  me,  while  my  sense  of  it  is  yet 
warm ;  for  if  I  linger  a  day  or  two  I  may  use  the  same 
phrase  of  acknowledgment,  or  similar,  but  the  feeling 
that  dictates  it  now  will  be  gone.  I  shall  send  you  a 
cajwt  mortiium,  not  a  cor  vivens.  Thy  Watchman's,  thy 
bellman's  verses,  I  do  retort  upon  thee,  thou  libellous 
varlet !  Why  you  cried  the  hours  yourself,  and  who 
made  you  so  proud  !  But  I  submit,  to  show  my  humility 
most  implicitly  to  your  dogmas.  I  reject  entirely  the 


TO  COLERIDGE.     '  53 

copy  of  verses  you  reject.  With  regard  to  my  leaving 
off  versifying,  you  have  said  so  many  pretty  things,  so 
many  fine  compliments,  ingeniously  decked  out  in  the 
garb  of  sincerity,  and  undoubtedly  springing  from  a  pre- 
sent feeling  somewhat  like  sincerity,  that  you  might  melt 
the  most  un-muse-ical  soul — did  you  not  (now  for  a  Row- 
land compliment  for  your  profusion  of  Olivers  !)  did  you 
not  in  your  very  epistle,  by  the  many  pretty  fancies  and 
profusion  of  heart  displayed  in  it,  dissuade  and  discourage 
me  from  attempting  anything  after  you.  At  present  I 
have  not  leisure  to  make  verses,  nor  anything  approach- 
ing to  a  fondness  for  the  exercise.  In  the  ignorant  pre- 
sent time,  who  can  answer  for  the  future  man1?  "At 
lovers'  perjuries  Jove  laughs ;"  and  poets  have  sometimes 
a  disingenuous  way  of  forswearing  their  occupation.  This 
though  is  not  my  case.  The  tender  cast  of  soul,  sombred 
with  melancholy  and  subsiding  recollections,  is  favourable 
to  the  Sonnet  or  the  Elegy ;  but  from 

"  The  sainted  growing  woof 

The  teasing  troubles  keep  aloof." 

The  music  of  poesy  may  charm  for  a  while  the  importunate 
teasing  cares  of  life ;  but  the  teased  and  troubled  man 
is  not  in  a  disposition  to  make  that  music. 

You  sent  me  some  very  sweet  lines  relative  to  Burns, 
but  it  was  at  a  time  when  in  my  highly  agitated  and 
perhaps  somewhat  distorted  state  of  mind  I  thought  it  a 
duty  to  read  'em  hastily  and  burn  'em.  I  burned  all  my 
own  verses ;  all  my  book  of  extracts  from  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  and  a  thousand  sources ;  I  burned  a  little  journal 
of  my  foolish  passion  which  I  had  a  long  time  kept — 

"  Noting  ere  they  past  away 
The  little  lines  of  yesterday." 

I  almost  burned  all  your  letters, — I  did  as  bad,  I  lent 
'em  to  a  friend  to  keep  out  of  my  brother's  sight,  should 
he  come  and  make  inquisition  into  our  papers ;  for,  much 
as  he  dwelt  upon  your  conversation  while  you  were  among 
us,  and  delighted  to  be  with  you,  it  has  been  his  fashion 


54  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

ever  since  to  depreciate  and  cry  you  down  :  you  were  the 
cause  of  my  madness — you  and  your  "damned  foolish 
sensibility  and  melancholy;"  and  he  lamented,  with  a 
true  brotherly  feeling,  that  we  ever  met ;  even  as  the 
sober  citizen,  when  his  son  went  astray  upon  the 
mountains  of  Parnassus,  is  said  to  have  "  cursed  Wit 
and  Poetry  and  Pope."  I  quote  wrong,  but  no  matter. 
These  letters  I  lent  to  a  friend  to  be  out  of  the  way  for 
a  season ;  but  I  have  claimed  'em  in  vain,  and  shall  not 
cease  to  regret  their  loss.  Your  packets,  posterior  to 
the  date  of  my  misfortunes,  commencing  with  that  valu- 
able consolatory  epistle,  are  every  day  accumulating  :  they 
are  sacred  things  with  me. 

Publish  your  Burns  when  and  how  you  like,  it  will  be 
new  to  me  :  my  memory  of  it  is  very  confused,  and  tainted 
with  unpleasant  associations.  Burns  was  the  god  of  my 
idolatry,  as  Bowles  is  of  yours.  I  am  jealous  of  your 
fraternising  with  Bowles,  when  I  think  you  relish  him 
more  than  Burns,  or  my  old  favourite,  Cowper.  But  you 
conciliate  matters  when  you  talk  of  the  "divine  chit- 
chat" of  the  latter:  by  that  expression  I  see  you 
thoroughly  relish  him.  I  love  Mrs.  Coleridge  for  her 
excuses  an  hundredfold  more  dearly  than  if  she  heaped 
"  line  upon  line,"  out-Hannah-iug  Hannah  More ;  and 
would  rather  hear  you  sing  "  Did  a  very  little  baby,"  by 
your  family  fire-side,  than  listen  to  you  when  you  were 
repeating  one  of  Bowles's  sweetest  sonnets,  in  your  sweet 
manner,  while  we  two  were  indulging  sympathy,  a  solitary 
luxury,  by  the  fire-side  at  the  Salutation.  Yet  have  I 
no  higher  ideas  of  heaven.  Your  company  was  one 
"cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale:"  the  remembrance  of 
it  is  a  blessing  partly,  and  partly  a  curse.  When  I  can 
abstract  myself  from  things  present,  I  can  enjoy  it  with  a 
freshness  of  relish ;  but  it  more  constantly  operates  to  an 
unfavourable  comparison  with  the  uninteresting  converse 
I  always  and  only  can  partake  in.  Not  a  soul  loves 
Bowles  here ;  scarce  one  has  heard  of  Burns ;  few  but 
laugh  at  me  for  reading  my  Testament.  They  talk  a 


TO  COLERIDGE.  55 

language  I  understand  not.  I  conceal  sentiments  that 
would  l)e  a  puzzle  to  them.  I  can  only  converse  with 
you  by  letter,  and  with  the  dead  in  their  books.  My 
sister,  indeed,  is  all  I  can  wish  in  a  companion ;  but  our 
spirits  are  alike  poorly,  our  reading  and  knowledge 
from  the  self-same  sources ;  our  communication  with  the 
scenes  of  the  world  alike  narrow.  Never  having  kept 
separate  company,  or  any  "  company  "  "  together  " — never 
having  read  separate  books,  and  few  books  together — what 
knowledge  have  we  to  convey  to  each  other  ?  In  our 
little  range  of  duties  and  connections,  how  few  sentiments 
can  take  place,  without  friends,  with  few  books,  with 
a  taste  for  religion,  rather  than  a  strong  religious  habit ! 
We  need  some  support,  some  leading-strings  to  cheer  and 
direct  us.  You  talk  very  wisely  ;  and  be  not  sparing  of 
your  advice.  Continue  to  remember  us,  and  to  show  us 
you  do  remember  us :  we  will  take  as  lively  an  interest 
in  what  concerns  you  and  yours.  All  I  can  add  to  your 
happiness  will  be  sympathy  :  you  can  add  to  mine  more  ; 
jou  can  teach  me  wisdom.  I  am  indeed  an  unreasonable 
.•orrespondent ;  but  I  was  unwilling  to  let  my  last  night's 
letter  go  off  without  this  qualifier :  you  will  perceive  by 
this  my  mind  is  easier,  and  you  will  rejoice.  I  do  not 
expect  or  wish  you  to  write  till  you  are  moved ;  and,  of 
course,  shall  not,  till  you  announce  to  me  that  event, 
think  of  writing  myself.  Love  to  Mrs.  Coleridge  and 
David  Hartley,  and  my  kind  remembrance  to  Lloyd,  if 
he  is  with  you.  C.  LAMB. 

I  will  get  Nature  and  Art:  have  not  seen  it  yet,  nor 
any  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  works. 


LETTER  XVIII.]  December,  1798. 

In  truth,  Coleridge,  I  am  perplexed,  and  at  times 
almost  cast  down.  I  am  beset  with  perplexities.  The 
old  hag  of  a  wealthy  relation  who  took  my  aunt  off  our 
hands  in  the  beginning  of  trouble,  has  found  out  that  she 


56  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

is  "  indolent  and  mulish  " — I  quote  her  own  words,  and 
that  her  attachment  to  us  is  so  strong  that  she  can  never 
be  happy  apart.  The  lady,  with  delicate  irony,  remarks, 
that  if  I  am  not  an  hypocrite  I  shall  rejoice  to  receive 
her  again ;  and  that  it  will  be  a  means  of  making  me 
more  fond  of  home  to  have  so  dear  a  friend  to  come  home 
to !  The  fact  is,  she  is  jealous  of  my  aunt's  bestowing 
any  kind  recollections  on  us  while  she  enjoys  the  patronage 
of  her  roof.  She  says  she  finds  it  inconsistent  with  her 
own  "ease  and  tranquillity,"  to  keep  her  any  longer; 
and,  in  fine,  summons  me  to  fetch  her  home.  Now, 
much  as  I  should  rejoice  to  transplant  the  poor  old  crea- 
ture from  the  chilling  air  of  such  patronage,  yet  I  know 
how  straitened  we  are  already,  how  unable  already  to 
answer  any  demand  which  sickness  or  any  extraordinary 
expense  may  make.  I  know  this  ;  and  all  unused  as  I 
am  to  struggle  with  perplexities,  I  am  somewhat  non- 
plussed, to  say  no  worse.  This  prevents  me  from  a 
thorough  relish  of  what  Lloyd's  kindness  and  yours  have 
furnished  me  Avith.  I  thank  you  though  from  my  heart, 
and  feel  myself  not  quite  alone  in  the  earth. 

0.  LAMB. 

LETTER  XIX.]  January  2,  1797. 

If  the  fraternal  sentiment  conveyed  in  the  following 
lines  will  atone  for  the  total  want  of  anything  like  merit 
or  genius  in  it,  I  desire  you  will  print  it  next  after  my 
other  Sonnet  to  my  Sister. 

Friend  of  my  earliest  years  and  childish  days, 
My  joys,  my  sorrows,  thou  with  me  hast  shared, 
Companion  dear ;  etc. 

This  has  been  a  sad  long  letter  of  business,  with  no 
room  in  it  for  what  honest  Bunyan  terms  heart-work. 
I  have  just  room  left  to  congratulate  you  on  your  removal 
to  Stowey ;  to  wish  success  to  all  your  projects  ;  to  "bid 
fair  peace  "  be  to  that  house ;  to  send  my  love  and  best 
wishes,  breathed  warmly,  after  your  clear  Sara,  and  her 


TO  COLERIDGE.  57 

little  David  Hartley.  If  Lloyd  be  with  you,  bid  him 
write  to  me  :  I  feel  to  whom  I  am  obliged  primarily  for 
two  very  friendly  letters  I  have  received  already  from 
him.  A  dainty  sweet  book  that  Nature  and  Art  is.  I 
am  at  present  re-re-reading  Priestley's  Examination  of  the 
Scotch  Doctors :  how  the  rogue  strings  'em  up !  three 
together !  You  have  no  doubt  read  that  clear,  strong, 
humorous,  most  entertaining  piece  of  reasoning.  If  not, 
procure  it,  and  be  exquisitely  amused.  I  wish  I  could 
get  more  of  Priestley's  works.  Can  you  recommend  me 
to  any  more  books,  easy  of  access,  such  as  circulating 
shops  afford  1  God  bless  you  and  yours. 
Monday  Morning,  at  Office. 

Poor  Mary  is  very  unwell  with  a  sore  throat  and  a 
slight  species  of  scarlet  fever.  God  bless  her  too. 

LETTER  XX.]  January  5,  1797. 

Sunday  Morning. — You  cannot  surely  mean  to  degrade 
the  Joan  of  Arc  into  a  pot-girl.  You  are  not  going,  I 
hope,  to  annex  to  that  most  splendid  ornament  of  Southey's 
poem  all  this  cock-and-a-bull  story  of  Joan,  the  publican's 
daughter  of  Neufchatel,  with  the  lamentable  episode  of  a 
waggoner,  his  wife,  and  six  children.  The  texture  will 
be  most  lamentably  disproportionate.  The  first  forty  or 
fifty  lines  of  these  addenda  are,  no  doubt,  in  their  way, 
admirable,  too ;  but  many  would  prefer  the  Joan  of 
Southey. 

"  On  mightiest  deeds  to  brood 
Of  shadowy  vastness,  such  as  made  my  heart 
Throb  fast ;  anon  I  paused,  and  in  a  state 
Of  half  expectance  listen'd  to  the  wind  ;" 

"  They  wonder'd  at  me,  who  had  known  me  once 
A  cheerful  careless  damsel ;" 

"  The  eye, 

That  of  the  circling  throng  and  of  the  visible  world 
Unseeing,  saw  the  shapes  of  holy  phantasy  ; " 

I  see  nothing  in  your  description  of  the  Maid  equal  to 


58  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

these.  There  is  a  fine  originality  certainly  in  those 
lines — 

"  For  she  had  lived  in  this  bad  world 

As  in  a  place  of  tombs, 

And  touch '(1  not  the  pollutions  of  the  dead  ;" 

but  your  "  fierce  vivacity  "  is  a  faint  copy  of  the  "  fierce 
and  terrible  benevolence  "  of  Southey  ;  added  to  this,  that 
it  will  look  like  rivalship  in  you,  and  extort  a  comparison 
with  Southey, — I  think  to  your  disadvantage.  And  the 
lines,  considered  in  themselves  as  an  addition  to  what 
you  had  before  written  (strains  of  a  far  higher  mood),  are 
but  such  as  Madame  Fancy  loves  in  some  of  her  more 
familiar  moods,  at  such  times  as  she  has  met  Noll  Gold- 
smith, and  walked  and  talked  with  him,  calling  him 
"old  acquaintance."  Southey  certainly  has  no  preten- 
sions to  vie  with  you  in  the  sublime  of  poetry ;  but  he 
tells  a  plain  tale  better  than  you.  I  will  enumerate 
some  woful  blemishes,  some  of  'em  sad  deviations  from 
that  simplicity  which  was  your  aim.  "  Hail'd  who  might 
be  near "  (the  "  canvas-coverture  moving,"  by  the  by,  is 
laughable) ;  "  a  woman  and  six  children  "  (by  the  way, — 
why  not  nine  children1?  It  wonld  have  been  just  half  as 
pathetic  again)  :  "  statues  of  sleep  they  seem'd  :  "  "  frost- 
majigled  wretch  :"  "  green  putridity  :"  "hail'd  him  im- 
mortal "  (rather  ludicrous  again) :  "  voic'd  a  sad  and 
simple  tale  "  (abominable  !)  :  "  unprovender'd  : "  "  such 
his  tale : "  "  Ah  !  suffering  to  the  height  of  what  was 
suflfer'd"  (a  most  insufferable  line):  "amazements  of 
affright : "  "  the  hot  sore  brain  attributes  its  own  hues 
of  ghastliuess  and  torture  "  (what  shocking  confusion  of 
ideas) ! 

In  these  delineations  of  common  and  natural  feelings, 
in  the  familiar  walks  of  poetry,  you  seem  to  resemble 
Montauban  dancing  with  Roubignd's  tenants,  "  much  oj 
his  native  loftiness  remained  in  the  execution." 

I  was  reading  your  Religious  Musings  the  other  day, 
and  sincerely  I  think  it  the  noblest  poem  in  the  language, 
next  after  the  Paradise  Lost;  and  even  that  was  not 


TO  COLERIDGE.  59 

made  the  vehicle  of  such  grand  truths.  "  There  is  one 
mind,"  etc.,  down  to  "  Almighty's  throne,"  are  without  a 
rival  in  the  whole  compass  of  my  poetical  reading. 

"  Stands  in  the  sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze 
Views  all  creation." 

I  wish  I  could  have  written  those  lines.  I  rejoice  that 
I  am  able  to  relish  them.  The  loftier  walks  of  Pindus 
are  your  proper  region.  There  you  have  no  compeer  in 
modern  times.  Leave  the  lowlands,  unenvied,  in  posses- 
sion of  such  men  as  Cowper  and  Southey.  Thus  am  I 
pouring  balsam  into  the  wounds  I  may  have  been  inflicting 
on  my  poor  friend's  vanity. 

In  your  notice  of  Southey's  new  volume  you  omit  to 
mention  the  most  pleasing  of  all,  the  "  Miniature  " — 

"  There  were 

Who  form'd  high  hopes  and  flattering  ones  of  thee 
Young  Robert, 
Spirit  of  Spenser  ! — was  the  wanderer  wrong  ?  " 

Fairfax  I  have  been  in  quest  of  a  long  time.  Johnson, 
in  his  "  Life  of  Waller,"  gives  a  most  delicious  specimen 
of  him,  and  adds,  in  the  true  manner  of  that  delicate 
critic,  as  well  as  amiable  man,  "  It  may  be  presumed  that 
this  old  version  will  not  be  much  read  after  the  elegant 
translation  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Hoole."  I  endeavoured — 
I  wished  to  gain  some  idea  of  Tasso  from  this  Mr.  Hoole, 
the  great  boast  and  ornament  of  the  India  House,  but 
soon  desisted.  I  found  him  more  vapid-  than  smallest 
small  beer  "  sun-vinegared."  Your  "  Dream,"  down  to  that 
exquisite  line — 

"  I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures," 

is  a  most  happy  resemblance  of  Chaucer.  The  remainder 
is  so  so.  The  best  line,  I  think,  is,  "He  belong'd,  I 
believe,  to  the  witch  Melancholy."  By  the  way,  when 
will  our  volume  come  out  1  Don't  delay  it  till  you  have 
written  a  new  Joan  of  Arc.  Send  what  letters  you  please 
by  me,  and  in  any  way  you  choose,  single  or  double. 
The  India  Company  is  better  adapted  to  answer  the  cost 


GO  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

than  the  generality  of  my  friend's  correspondents, — such 
poor  and  honest  dogs  as  John  Thelwall,  particularly.  I 
cannot  say  I  know  Colson,  at  least  intimately.  I  once 
supped  with  him  and  Allen  :  I  think  his  manners  very 
pleasing.  I  will  not  tell  you  what  I  think  of  Lloyd,  for 
he  may  by  chance  come  to  see  this  letter,  and  that  thought 
puts  a  restraint  on  me.  I  cannot  think  what  subject 
would  suit  your  epic  genius  ;  some  philosophical  subject., 
I  conjecture,  in  which  shall  be  blended  the  sublime  of 
poetry  and  of  science.  Your  proposed  "  Hymns  "  will 
be  a  fit  preparatory  study  wherewith  "  to  discipline  your 
young  noviciate  soul."  I  grow  dull ;  I'll  go  walk  myself 
out  of  my  dulness. 

Sunday  Night. — You  and  Sara  are  very  good  to  think 
BO  kindly  and  so  favourably  of  poor  Mary ;  I  would  to 
God  all  did  so  too.  But  I  very  much  fear  she  must  not 
think  of  coming  home  in  my  father's  lifetime.  It  is  very 
hard  upon  her ;  but  our  circumstances  are  peculiar,  and 
we  must  submit  to  them.  God  be  praised  she  is  so  well 
as  she  is.  She  bears  her  situation  as  one  who  has  no 
right  to  complain.  My  poor  old  aunt,  whom  you  have 
seen,  the  kindest,  goodest  creature  to  me  when  I  was  at 
school ;  who  used  to  toddle  there  to  bring  me  good  things, 
when  I,  school-boy  like,  only  despised  her  for  it,  and 
used  to  be  ashamed  to  see  her  come  and  sit  herself  down  on 
the  old  coal-hole  steps  as  you  went  into  the  old  grammar- 
school,  and  open  her  apron,  and  bring  out  her  bason,  with 
some  nice  thing  she  had  caused  to  be  saved  for  me ;  the 
good  old  creature  is  now  lying  on  her  death-bed.  I  can- 
not bear  to  think  on  her  deplorable  state.  To  the  shock 
she  received  on  that  our  evil  day,  from  which  she  never 
completely  recovered,  I  impute  her  illness.  She  says, 
poor  thing,  she  is  glad  she  is  come  home  to  die  with  me, 
I  was  always  her  favourite  : 

"  No  after  friendship  e'er  can  raise 
The  endearments  of  our  early  days, 
Nor  e'er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove^ 
As  when  it  first  began  to  love." 


TO  COLERIDGE.  61 

Lloyd  has  kindly  left  me,  for  a  keep-sake,  John 
Woolman.  You  have  read  it,  he  says,  and  like  it.  Will 
you  excuse  one  short  extract  ?  I  think  it  could  not  have 
escaped  you : — "  Small  treasure  to  a  resigned  mind  is 
sufficient.  How  happy  is  it  to  be  content  with  a  little, 
to  live  in  humility,  and  feel  that  in  us,  which  breathes 

out  this  language — Abba!  Father!" 1  am  almost 

ashamed  to  patch  up  a  letter  in  this  miscellaneous  sort ; 
but  I  please  myself  in  the  thought,  that  anything  from 
me  will  be  acceptable  to  you.  I  am  rather  impatient, 
childishly  so,  to  see  our  names  affixed  to  the  same 
common  volume.  Send  me  two,  when  it  does  come 
out ;  two  will  be  enough — or  indeed  one — but  two  better. 
I  have  a  dim  recollection  that,  when  in  town,  you  were 
talking  of  the  Origin  of  Evil  as  a  most  prolific  subject 
for  a  long  poem.  Why  not  adopt  it,  Coleridge  1 — there 
would  be  room  for  imagination.  Or  the  description  (from 
a  Vision  or  Dream,  suppose)  of  an  Utopia  in  one  of  the 
planets  (the  Moon,  for  instance).  Or  a  Five  Days' 
Dream,  which  shall  illustrate,  in  sensible  imagery,  Hart- 
ley's five  Motives  to  Conduct:  —  1.  Sensation;  2.  Im- 
agination ;  3.  Ambition ;  4.  Sympathy ;  5.  Theopathy : — 
First.  Banquets,  music,  etc.,  effeminacy, — and  their  in- 
sufficiency. Second.  "  Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses,  where 
young  Adonis  oft  reposes;"  "Fortunate  Isles;"  "The 
pagan  Elysium,"  etc. ;  poetical  pictures ;  antiquity  as 
pleasing  to  the  fancy; — their  emptiness,  madness,  etc. 
Third.  Warriors,  Poets ;  some  famous  yet  more  forgotten ; 
their  fame  or  oblivion  now  alike  indifferent ;  pride,  vanity, 
etc.  Fourth.  All  manner  of  pitiable  stories,  in  Spenser- 
like  verse  ;  love  ;  friendship,  relationship,  etc.  Fifth. 
Hermits ;  Christ  and  his  apostles ;  martyrs ;  heaven,  etc. 
An  imagination  like  yours,  from  these  scanty  hints,  may 
expand  into  a  thousand  great  ideas,  if  indeed  you  at  all 
comprehend  my  scheme,  which  I  scarce  do  myself. 

Monday  Morn. — "  A  London  letter — Ninepence  half- 
penny !"  Look  you,  master  poet,  I  have  remorse  as  well 
as  another  man,  and  my  bowels  can  sound  upon  occasion. 


62  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

But  I  must  put  you  to  this  charge,  for  I  cannot  keep  back 
my  protest,  however  ineffectual,  against  the  annexing 
your  latter  lines  to  those  former — this  putting  of  ne-.v 
wine  into  old  bottles.  This  my  duty  done,  I  will  cease 
from  writing  till  you  invent  some  more  reasonable  mode 
of  conveyance.  Well  may  the  "ragged  followers  of  the 
Nine"  set  up  for  flocci-nauci-what-do-you-call-'em-ists  ! 
and  I  do  not  wonder  that  in  their  splendid  visions  of 
Utopias  in  America  they  protest  against  the  admission  of 
those  yeZZow-complexioned,  co/>/>er-coloured,  white-livered 
gentlemen,  who  never  proved  themselves  their  friends. 
Don't  you  think  your  verses  on  a  "Young  Ass"  too 
trivial  a  companion  for  the  "  Religions  Musings  ?"- 
"Scoundrel  monarch,"  alter  that;  and  the  "Man  of 
Ross  "  is  scarce  admissible,  as  it  now  stands,  curtailed  of 
its  fairer  half:  reclaim  its  property  from  the  "Chat- 
terton,"  which  it  does  but  encumber,  and  it  will  be  a 
rich  little  poem.  I  hope  you  expunge  great  part  of 
the  old  notes  in  the  new  edition :  that,  in  particular, 
most  barefaced,  unfounded,  impudent  assertion,  that  Mr. 
Rogers  is  indebted  fur  his  story  to  Loch  Lomond,  a  poem 
by  Bruce !  I  have  read  the  latter.  I  scarce  think  you 
have.  Scarce  anything  is  common  to  them  both.  The 
poor  author  of  the  Pleasures  of  Memory  was  sorely  hurt, 
Dyer  says,  by  the  accusation  of  unoriginality.  He  never 
saw  the  poem.  I  long  to  read  your  poem  on  Burns ;  I 
retain  so  indistinct  a  memory  of  it.  In  what  shape  and 
how  does  it  come  into  public  ?  As  you  leave  off  writing 
poetry  till  you  finish  your  Hymns,  I  suppose  you  print, 
now,  all  you  have  got  by  you.  You  have  scarce  enough 
imprinted  to  make  a  second  volume  with  Lloyd.  Tell 
me  all  about  it.  What  is  become  of  Cowper?  Lloyd 
told  me  of  some  verses  on  his  mother.  If  you  have  them 
by  you,  pray  send  'em  me.  I  do  so  love  him  !  Never  mind 
their  merit.  May  be  /  may  like  'em,  as  your  taste  and 
mine  do  not  always  exactly  identify.  Yours, 

C.  LAMB. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  63 

LETTER  XXI.]  January  10,  1797. 

I  need  not  repeat  my  wishes  to  have  my  little  sonnets 
printed  verbatim  my  last  way.  In  particular,  I  fear  lest 
you  should  prefer  printing  my  first  sonnet,  as  you  have 
done  more  than  once,  "Did  the  wand  of  Merlin  wave1?" 
It  looks  so  like  Mr.  Merlin,  the  ingenious  successor  of 
the  immortal  Merlin,  now  living  in  good  health  and 
spirits,  and  flourishing  in  magical  reputation  in  Oxford 
Street ;  and,  on  my  life,  one  half  who  read  it  would 
understand  it  so.  Do  put  'em  forth,  finally,  as  I  have 
in  various  letters  settled  it ;  for  first  a  man's  self  is  to 
be  pleased,  and  then  his  friends ;  and,  of  course,  the 
greater  number  of  his  friends,  if  they  differ  inter  se. 
Thus  taste  may  safely  be  put  to  the  vote.  I  do  long 
to  see  our  names  together ;  not  for  vanity's  sake,  and 
naughty  pride  of  heart  altogether,  for  not  a  living  soul  I 
know,  or  am  intimate  with,  will  scarce  read  the  book : 
so  I  shall  gain  nothing,  quoad  famam ;  and  yet  there  is 
a  little  vanity  mixes  in  it,  I  cannot  help  denying.  I  am 
aware  of  the  unpoetical  cast  of  the  six  last  lines  of  my 
last  sonnet,  and  think  myself  unwarranted  in  smuggling 
so  tame  a  thing  into  the  book ;  only  the  sentiments  of 
those  six  lines  are  thoroughly  congenial  to  me  in  my 
state  of  mind,  and  I  wish  to  accumulate  perpetuating 
tokens  of  my  affection  to  poor  Mary.  That  it  has  no 
originality  in  its  cast,  nor  anything  in  the  feelings  but 
what  is  common  and  natural  to  thousands,  nor  ought  pro- 
perly to  be  called  poetry,  I  see ;  still  it  will  tend  to  keep 
present  to  my  mind  a  view  of  things  which  I  ought  to 
jdulge.  These  six  lines,  too,  have  not,  to  a  reader,  a 
connectedness  with  the  foregoing. — Omit  it,  if  you  like. — 
What  a  treasure  it  is  to  my  poor,  indolent,  and  unem- 
ployed mind,  thus  to  lay  hold  on  a  subject  to  talk  about, 
though  'tis  but  a  sonnet,  and  that  of  the  lowest  order  I 
How  mournfully  inactive  I  am  ! — 'Tis  night :  Good-night. 

My  sister,  I  thank  God,  is  nigh  recovered :  she  was 
seriously  ill.  Do,  in  your  next  letter,  and  that  right 


64  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

soon,  give  me  some  satisfaction  respecting  your  present 
situation  at  Stowey.  Is  it  a  farm  you  have  got  1(  And 
what  does  your  worship  know  about  farming  ? 

Coleridge,  I  want  you  to  write  an  epic  poem.  Nothing 
short  of  it  can  satisfy  the  vast  capacity  of  true  poetic 
genius.  Having  one  great  end  to  direct  all  your  poetical 
faculties  to,  and  on  which  to  lay  out  your  hopes,  your 
ambition  will  show  you  to  what  you  are  equal.  By  the 
sacred  energies  of  Milton  !  by  the  dainty,  sweet,  and 
soothing  phantasies  of  honey-tongued  Spenser  !  I  adjure 
you  to  attempt  the  epic,  or  do  something  more  ample 
than  writing  an  occasional  brief  ode  or  sonnet ;  something, 
"  to  make  yourself  for  ever  known, — to  make  the  age  to 
come  your  own."  But  I  prate;  doubtless  you  meditate 
something.  When  you  are  exalted  among  the  lords  of 
epic  fame,  I  shall  recall  with  pleasure,  and  exultingly,  the 
days  of  your  humility,  when  you  disdained  not  to  put 
forth,  in  the  same  volume  with  mine,  your  Religious 
Musings  and  that  other  poem  from  the  Joan  of  Arc,  those 
promising  first-fruits  of  high  renown  to  come.  You  have 
learning,  you  have  fancy,  you  have  enthusiasm,  you  have 
strength,  and  amplitude  of  wing  enow  for  flights  like  those 
I  recommend.  In  the  vast  and  unexplored  regions  of 
fairy-land  there  is  ground  enough  unfound  and  unculti- 
vated :  search  there,  and  realise  your  favourite  Susque- 
hannah  scheme.  In  all  our  comparisons  of  taste,  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  have  ever  heard  your  opinion  of  a  poet, 
very  dear  to  me, — the  uow-out-of-fashion  Cowley.  Favour 
me  with  your  judgment  of  him,  and  tell  me  if  his  prose 
essays,  in  particular,  as  well  as  no  inconsiderable  part  of  his 
verse,  be  not  delicious.  I  prefer  the  graceful  rambling  of 
his  essays,  even  to  the  courtly  elegance  and  ease  of  Addison; 
abstracting  from  this  the  latter's  exquisite  humour. 

When  the  little  volume  is  printed,  send  me  three  or 
four,  at  all  events  not  more  than  six  copies,  and  tell  me 
if  I  put  you  to  any  additional  expense,  by  printing  with 
you.  I  have  no  thought  of  the  kind,  and  in  that  case 
must  reimburse  you. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  65 

Priestley,  whom  I  sin  in  almost  adoring,  speaks  of 
"such  a  choice  of  company  as  tends  to  keep  up  that 
right  bent  and  firmness  of  mind  which  a  necessary 
intercourse  with  the  world  would  otherwise  warp  and 
relax."  "  Such  fellowship  is  the  true  balsam  of  life  ;  its 
cement  is  infinitely  more  durable  than  that  of  the  friend- 
ships of  the  world ;  and  it  looks  for  its  proper  fruit  and 
complete  gratification  to  the  life  beyond  the  grave." 
Is  there  a  possible  chance  for  such  an  one  as  I  to  realise 
in  this  world  such  friendships  1  Where  am  I  to  look  for 
'em  1  What  testimonials  shall  I  bring  of  my  being  worthy 
of  such  friendship  1  Alas  !  the  great  and  good  go  to- 
gether in  separate  herds,  and  leave  such  as  I  to  lag  far, 
far  behind  in  all  intellectual,  and,  far  more  grievous  to 
say,  in  all  moral  accomplishments.  Coleridge,  I  have  not 
one  truly  elevated  character  among  my  acquaintance : 
not  one  Christian  :  not  one  but  undervalues  Christianity. 
Singly,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Wesley  (have  yon  read  his 
life  /)  was  he  not  an  elevated  character  1  Wesley  has 
said,  "Religion  is  not  a  solitary  thing."  Alas !  it  neces- 
sarily is  so  with  me,  or  next  to  solitary.  'Tis  true  you 
write  to  me ;  but  correspondence  by  letter,  and  personal  in- 
timacy, are  very  widely  different.  Do,  do  write  to  me,  and 
do  some  good  to  my  mind,  already  how  much  "  warped  and 
relaxed  "  by  the  world  !  'Tis  the  conclusion  of  another 
evening.  Good  night.  God  have  us  all  in  Ids  keeping  ! 

If  you  are  sufficiently  at  leisure,  oblige  me  with  an 
account  of  your  plan  of  life  at  Stowey — your  literary 
occupations  and  prospects  ;  in  short,  make  me  acquainted 
with  every  circumstance  which,  as  relating  to  you,  can  be 
interesting  to  me.  Are  you  yet  a  Berkleyan  ?  Make  me 
one.  I  rejoice  in  being,  speculatively,  a  Necessarian. 
Would  to  God,  I  were  habitually  a  practical  one !  Con- 
firm me  in  the  faith  of  that  great  and  glorious  doctrine, 
and  keep  me  steady  in  the  contemplation  of  it.  You 
some  time  since  expressed  an  intention  you  had  of  finish- 
ing some  extensive  work  on  the  Evidences  of  Natural  and 
Revealed  Religion.  Have  you  let  that  intention  go? 

F 


66  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Or  are  you  doing  anything  towards  it  1  Make  to  yourself 
other  ten  talents.  My  letter  is  full  of  nothingness.  I 
talk  of  nothing.  But  I  must  talk.  I  love  to  write  to 
you.  I  take  a  pride  in  it.  It  makes  me  think  less 
meanly  of  myself.  It  makes  me  think  myself  not  totally 
disconnected  from  the  better  part  of  mankind.  I  know 
I  am  too  dissatisfied  with  the  beings  around  me ;  but  I 
cannot  help  occasionally  exclaiming,  "  Woe  is  me,  that  I 
am  constrained  to  dwell  with  Meshech,  and  to  have  my 
habitation  among  the  tents  of  Kedar !"  I  know  I  am 
noways  better  in  practice  than  my  neighbours,  but  I  have 
a  taste  for  religion,  an  occasional  earnest  aspiration  after 
perfection,  which  they  have  not.  I  gain  nothing  by  being 
with  such  as  myself:  we  encourage  one  another  in  medio- 
crity. I  am  always  longing  to  be  with  men  more  excellent 
than  myself.  All  this  must  sound  odd  to  you ;  but  these 
are  my  predominant  feelings  when  I  sit  down  to  write 
to  you,  and  I  should  put  force  upon  my  mind  were  I  to 
reject  them.  Yet  I  rejoice,  and  feel  my  privilege  with 
gratitude,  when  I  have  been  reading  some  wise  book, 
such  as  I  have  just  been  reading,  Priestley  on  Philo- 
sophical Necessity,  in  the  thought  that  I  enjoy  a  kind  of 
communion,  a  kind  of  friendship  even,  with  the  great  and 
good.  Books  are  to  me  instead  of  friends.  I  wish  they 
did  not  resemble  the  latter  in  their  scarceness. 

And  how  does  little  David  Hartley1?  "  Ecquid  in 
antiquam  virtutem?"  Does  his  mighty  name  work 
wonders  yet  upon  his  little  frame  and  opening  mind  ?  I 
did  not  distinctly  understand  you :  you  don't  mean  to 
make  an  actual  ploughman  of  him  !  Is  Lloyd  with  you 
yet  ?  Are  you  intimate  with  Southey  ?  What  poems  is 
he  about  to  publish  1  He  hath  a  most  prolific  brain,  and 
is  indeed  a  most  sweet  poet.  But  how  can  you  answer 
all  the  various  mass  of  interrogation  I  have  put  to  you  in 
the  course  of  this  sheet  1  Write  back  just  what  you  like, 
only  write  something,  however  brief.  I  have  now  nigh 
finished  my  page,  and  got  to  the  end  of  another  evening 
(Monday  evening),  and  my  eyes  are  heavy  and  sleepy, 


TO  COLERIDGE.  67 

and  my  brain  unsuggestive.  I  have  just  heart  enough 
awake  to  say  good-night  once  more,  and  God  love  you, 
my  dear  friend ;  God  love  us  all !  Mary  bears  an  affec- 
tionate remembrance  of  you.  CHAKLES  LAMB. 


LETTER  XXII.]  January  16,  1797. 

Dear  0 , — You  have  learned  by  this  time,  with 

surprise,  no  doubt,  that  Lloyd  is  with  me  in  town.  The 
emotions  I  felt  on  his  coming  so  unlocked  for,  are  not  ill 
expressed  in  what  follows,  and  what  (if  you  do  not  object 
to  them  as  too  personal,  and  to  the  world  obscure,  or 
otherwise  wanting  in  worth)  I  should  wish  to  make  a 
part  of  our  little  volume.  I  shall  be  sorry  if  that  volume 
comes  out,  as  it  necessarily  must  do,  unless  you  print 
those  very  schoolboy-ish  verses  I  sent  you  on  not  getting 
leave  to  come  down  to  Bristol  last  Summer.  I  say  I 
shall  be  sorry  that  I  have  addressed  you  in  nothing  which 
can  appear  in  our  joint  volume  ;  so  frequently,  so  habitu- 
ally, as  you  dwell  in  my  thoughts,  'tis  some  wonder 
those  thoughts  came  never  yet  in  contact  with  a  poetical 
xnood.  But  you  dwell  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  and  I  love 
foil  in  all  the  naked  honesty  of  prose.  God  bless  you, 
and  all  your  little  domestic  circle  !  My  tenderest  remem- 
brances to  your  beloved  Sara,  and  a  smile  and  a  kiss  from 
me  to  your  dear  dear  little  David  Hartley.  The  verses  I 
refer  to  above,  slightly  amended,  I  have  sent  (forgetting 
to  ask  your  leave,  tho'  indeed  I  gave  them  only  your 
initials)  to  the  Monthly  Magazine,  where  they  may 
possibly  appear  next  mouth,  and  where  I  hope  to  recognise 
your  poem  on  Burns. 

TO  CHARLES  LLOYD,  AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR, 

Alone,  obscure,  without  a  friend, 

A  cheerless,  solitary  thing, 
Why  seeks  my  Lloyd  the  stranger  out  t 

What  offering  can  the  stranger  bring 


68  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Of  social  scenes,  home-bred  delights, 

That  him  in  aught  compensate  may 
For  Stowey's  pleasant  winter  nights, 

For  loves  and  friendships  far  away, 

In  brief  oblivion  to  forego 

Friends,  such  as  thine,  so  justly  t'ear, 

And  be  awhile  with  me  content 
To  stay,  a  kindly  loiterer,  here? 

For  this  a  gleam  of  random  joy 

Hath  flush'd  my  unaccustomed  cheek  ; 

And,  with  an  o'er-charged  bursting  heart, 
I  feel  the  thanks  I  cannot  speak. 

0!  sweet  are  all  the  Muse's  lays, 

And  sweet  the  charm  of  matin  bird — 

'Twas  long,  sine?  these  estranged  ears 
The  sweeter  voice  of  friend  had  heard. 

The  voice  hath  spoke  :  the  pleasant  sounds, 

In  memory's  ear,  in  after  time 
Shall  live,  to  sometimes  rouse  a  tear, 

And  sometimes  prompt  an  honest  rhyme. 

For  when  the  transient  charm  is  fled, 

And  when  the  little  week  is  o'er, 
To  cheerless,  friendless  solitude 

When  I  return,  as  heretofore — 

Long,  long,  within  my  aching  heart 
/  The  grateful  sense  shall  cherished  be  ; 

I  "11  think  less  meanly  of  myself, 

That  Lloyd  will  sometimes  think  on  me. 

0  Coleridge,  would  to  God  you  were  in  London  with 
us,  or  we  two  at  Stowey  with  you  all !  Lloyd  takes  up 
his  abode  at  the  Bull  and  Mouth  ;  the  Cat  and  Saluta- 
tion would  have  had  a  charm  more  forcible  for  me.  0 
nodes  coenceqiie  Deiim  !  Anglice— Welsh  rabbit,  punch, 
and  poesy.  Should  you  be  induced  to  publish  those  very 
schoolboy-ish  verses,  print  'em  as  they  will  occur,  if  at 
all,  in  the  Monthly  Magazine  ;  yet  I  should  feel  ashamed 
that  to  you  I  wrote  nothing  better :  but  they  are  too 
personal,  and  almost  trifling  and  obscure  withal.  Some 


TO  COLERIDGE.  69 

lines  of  mine  to  Cowper  were  in  the  last  Monthly  Maga- 
zine :  they  have  not  body  of  thought  enough  to  plead  for 
the  retaining  of  'em.  My  sister's  kind  love  to  you  all. 

C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  XXIII.]  February  13,  1797. 

Your  poem  is  altogether  admirable :  parts  of  it  are 
even  exquisite ;  in  particular,  your  personal  account  of 
the  Maid  far  surpasses  anything  of  the  sort  in  Southey. 
I  perceived  all  its  excellences,  on  a  first  reading,  as  readily 
as  now  you  have  been  removing  a  supposed  film  from  ray 
eyes.  I  was  only  struck  with  a  certain  faulty  dispropor- 
tion in  the  matter  and  the  style,  which  I  still  think  I 
perceive,  between  these  lines  and  the  former  ones.  I  had 
an  end  in  view  :  I  wished  to  make  you  reject  the  poem 
only  as  being  discordant  with  the  other ;  and,  in  subser- 
vience to  that  end,  it  was  politically  done  in  me  to  over- 
pass and  make  no  mention  of  merit,  which,  could  you 
think  me  capable  of  overlooking,  might  reasonably  damn 
for  ever  in  your  judgment  all  pretensions,  in  me,  to  be 
critical.  There — I  will  be  judged  by  Lloyd,  whether  I 
Jiave  not  made  a  very  handsome  recantation.  I  was  in 
the  case  of  a  man  whose  friend  has  asked  him  his  opinion 
of  a  certain  young  lady.  The  deluded  wight  gives  judg- 
ment against  her  in  toto — doesn't  like  her  face,  her  walk, 
her  manners ;  finds  fault  with  her  eyebrows ;  can  see  no 
wit  in  her.  His  friend  looks  blank ;  he  begins  to  smell 
a  rat ;  wind  veers  about ;  he  acknowledges  her  good  sense, 
her  judgment  in  dress,  a  certain  simplicity  of  manners 
and  honesty  of  heart,  something  too  in  her  manners 
which  gains  upon  you  after  a  short  acquaintance ;  and 
then  her  accurate  pronunciation  of  the  French  language, 
and  a  pretty  uncultivated  taste  in  drawing.  The  recon- 
ciled gentleman  smiles  applause,  squeezes  him  by  the 
Land,  and  hopes  he  will  do  him  the  honour  of  taking  a 

bit  of  dinner  with  Mrs. and  him,— a  plain  family 

dinner, — some  day  next  week;    "for,  I  suppose,  you 


70  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

never  heard  we  were  married.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  like 
my  wife,  however ;  you'll  come  and  see  her,  ha  1 "  Now 
am  I  too  proud  to  retract  entirely  1  Yet  I  do  perceive  I 
am  in  some  sort  straitened.  You  are  manifestly  wedded 
to  this  poem;  and  what  fancy  has  joined  let  no  man 
separata  I  turn  me  to  the  Joan  of  Arc,  second  book. 

The  solemn  openings  of  it  are  with  sounds  which, 
Lloyd  would  say,  "  are  silence  to  the  mind."  The  deep 
preluding  strains  are  fitted  to  initiate  the  mind,  with  a 
pleasing  awe,  into  the  sublimest  mysteries  of  theory  con- 
cerning man's  nature,  and  his  noblest  destination — the 
philosophy  of  a  first  cause  —  of  subordinate  agents  in 
creation  superior  to  man — the  subserviency  of  pagan 
worship  and  pagan  faith  to  the  introduction  of  a  purer 
and  more  perfect  religion,  which  you  so  elegantly  describe 
as  winning,  with  gradual  steps,  her  difficult  way  north- 
ward from  Bethabara.  After  all  this  cometh  Joan,  a 
publican's  daughter,  sitting  on  an  ale-house  f>nck,  and 
marking  the  swingings  of  the  signboard,  finding  a  poor 
man,  his  wife,  and  six  children,  starved  to  death  with 
cold,  and  thence  roused  into  a  state  of  mind  proper  to 
receive  visions,  emblematical  of  equality;  which,  what 
the  devil  Joan  had  to  do  with,  I  don't  know,  or  indeed 
with  the  French  and  American  revolutions ;  though  that 
needs  no  pardon,  it  is  executed  so  nobly.  After  all,  if 
you  perceive  no  disproportion,  all  argument  is  vain :  I  do 
not  so  much  object  to  parts.  Again,  when  you  talk  of 
building  your  fame  on  these  lines  in  preference  to  the 
Religious  Musings,  I  cannot  help  conceiving  of  you,  and 
of  the  author  of  that,  as  two  different  persons,  and  I 
think  you  a  very  vain  man. 

I  have  been  re-reading  your  letter.  Much  of  it  I 
could  dispute ;  but  with  the  latter  part  of  it,  in  which 
you  compare  the  two  Joans  with  respect  to  their  pre- 
dispositions for  fanaticism,  I,  toto  corde,  coincide ;  only  I 
think  that  Southey's  strength  rather  lies  in  the  description 
of  the  emotions  of  the  Maid  under  the  weight  of  inspira- 
tion. These  (I  see  no  mighty  difference  between  her 


TO  COLERIDGE.  7l 

describing  them  or  your  describing  them),  these  if  you 
only  equal,  the  previous  admirers  of  his  poem,  as  is 
natural,  will  prefer  his.  If  you  surpass,  prejudice  will 
scarcely  allow  it,  and  I  scarce  think  you  will  surpass, 
though  your  specimen  at  the  conclusion  (I  am  in  earnest) 
I  think  very  nigh  equals  them.  And  in  an  account  of  a 
fanatic  or  of  a  prophet,  the  description  of  her  emotions 
is  expected  to  be  most  highly  finished.  By  the  way,  I 
spoke  far  too  disparagingly  of  your  lines,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  purposely.  I  should  like  you  to  specify 
or  particularise.  The  story  of  the  "  Tottering  Eld,"  of 
"  his  eventful  years  all  come  and  gone,"  is  too  general. 
Why  not  make  him  a  soldier,  or  some  character,  however, 
in  which  he  has  been  witness  to  frequency  of  "cruel 
wrong  and  strange  distress  !"  I  think  I  should.  When 
I  laughed  at  the  "  miserable  man  crawling  from  beneath 
the  coverture,"  I  wonder  I  did  not  perceive  that  it  was  a 
laugh  of  horror — such  as  I  have  laughed  at  Dante's  picture 
of  the  famished  Ugolino.  Without  falsehood,  I  perceive 
an  hundred  beauties  in  your  narrative.  Yet  I  wonder 
you  do  not  perceive  something  out-of-the-way,  something1 
unsimple  and  artificial  in  the  expression,  "  voiced  a  sad 
tale."  I  hate  made-dishes  at  the  muses'  banquet.  1 
believe  I  was  wrong  in  most  of  my  other  objections. 
But  surely  "  hailed  him  immortal,"  adds  nothing  to  the 
terror  of  the  man's  death,  which  it  was  your  business  to 
heighten,  not  diminish  by  a  phrase  which  takes  away  all 
terror  from  it.  I  like  that  line,  "  They  closed  their  eyes 
in  sleep,  nor  knew  'twas  death."  Indeed  there  is  scarce 
a  line  I  do  not  like.  "  Turbid  ecstacy,"  is  surely  not  so 
good  as  what  you  had  written,  "troublous."  Turbid 
rather  suits  the  muddy  kind  of  inspiration  which  London 
porter  confers.  The  versification  is,  throughout,  to  my 
ears  unexceptionable,  with  no  disparagement  to  the  mea- 
sure of  the  Religious  Musings,  which  is  exactly  fitted  to 
the  thoughts. 

You  were  building  your  house  on  a  rock  when  you 
rested  your  fame  on  that  poem.     I  can  scarce  bring  my< 


72  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

self  to  believe  that  I  am  admitted  to  a  familiar  corres- 
pondence, and  all  the  licence  of  friendship,  with  a  man 
who  writes  blank  verse  like  Milton.  Now,  this  is  delicate 
flattery,  indirect  flattery.  Go  on  with  your  Maid  of 
Orleans,  and  be  content  to  be  second  to  yourself.  I  shall 
become  a  convert  to  it  when  'tis  finished. 

This  afternoon  I  attend  the  funeral  of  my  poor  old 
aunt,  who  died  on  Thursday.  I  own  I  am  thankful  that 
the  good  creature  has  ended  all  her  days  of  suffering  and 
infirmity.  She  was  to  me  the  "cherisher  of  infancy," 
and  one  must  fall  on  those  occasions  into  reflections, 
which  it  would  be  commonplace  to  enumerate,  concerning 
death,  "  of  chance  and  change,  and  fate  in  human  life." 
Good  God,  who  could  have  foreseen  all  this  but  four 
months  back  !  I  had  reckoned,  in  particular,  on  my 
aunt's  living  many  years;  she  was  a  very  hearty  old 
woman.  But  she  was  a  mere  skeleton  before  she  died, 
looked  more  like  a  corpse  that  had  lain  weeks  in  the 
grave,  than  one  fresh  dead.  "  Truly  the  light  is  sweet, 
and  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  for  the  eyes  to  behold  the  sun; 
but  if  a  man  live  many  years  and  rejoice  in  them  all,  yet 
let  him  remember  the  days  of  darkness,  for  they  shall  be 
many."  Coleridge,  why  are  we  to  live  on  after  all  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  existence  is  gone,  when  all  the 
life  of  life  is  fled,  as  poor  Burns  expresses  it  1  Tell  Lloyd 
I  have  had  thoughts  of  turning  Quaker,  and  have  been 
reading,  or  am  rather  just  beginning  to  read,  a  most 
capital  book,  good  thoughts  in  good  language,  William 
Penn's  No  Cross,  no  Crown.  I  like  it  immensely.  Un- 
luckily I  went  to  rue  of  his  meetings,  tell  him,  in  St. 
John  Street,  yestwday,  and  saw  a  man  under  all  the 
agitations  and  workings  of  a  fanatic,  who  believed  him- 
self under  the  influence  of  some  "inevitable  presence." 
This  cured  me  of  Quakerism.  I  love  it  in  the  books  of 
Penn  and  Woolman ;  but  I  detest  the  vanity  of  a  man 
thinking  he  speaks  by  the  Spirit,  when  what  he  says  an 
ordinary  man  might  say  without  all  that  quaking  and 
trembling.  In  the  midst  of  his  inspiration  (and  the 


TO  COLERIDGE.  73 

effects  of  it  were  most  noisy)  was  handed  into  the  midst 
of  the  meeting  a  most  terrible  blackguard  Wapping  sailor. 
The  poor  man,  I  believe,  had  rather  have  been  in  the 
hottest  part  of  an  engagement,  for  the  congregation  of 
broad-brims,  together  with  the  ravings  of  the  prophet, 
were  too  much  for  his  gravity,  though  I  saw  even  he  had 
delicacy  enough  not  to  laugh  out.  And  the  inspired  gentle- 
man, though  his  manner  was  so  supernatural,  yet  neither 
talked  nor  professed  to  talk  anything  more  than  good 
sober  sense,  common  morality,  with  now  and  then  a 
declaration  of  not  speaking  from  himself.  Among  other 
things,  looking  back  to  his  childhood  and  early  youth,  he 
told  the  meeting  what  a  graceless  young  dog  he  had  been ; 
that  in  his  youth  he  had  a  good  share  of  wit.  Reader, 
if  thou  hadst  seen  the  gentleman,  thou  wouldst  have 
sworn  that  it  must  indeed  have  been  many  years  ago,  for 
his  rueful  physiognomy  would  have  scared  away  the  play- 
ful goddess  from  the  meeting,  where  he  presided,  for  ever. 
A  wit !  a  wit !  what  could  he  mean  1  Lloyd,  it  minded 
me  of  Falkland  in  the  Rivals,  "Am  I  full  of  wit  and 
humour  1  No,  indeed  you  are  not.  Am  I  the  life  and 
soul  of  every  company  I  come  into  ?  No,  it  cannot  be 
said  you  are."  That  hard-faced  gentleman,  a  wit !  Why, 
Nature  wrote  on  his  fanatic  forehead  fifty  years  ago,  "  Wit 
never  comes,  that  comes  to  all."  I  should  be  as  scandalised 
at  a  bon  mot  issuing  from  his  oracle-looking  mouth,  as  to 
see  Cato  go  down  a  country  dance.  God  love  you  all ! 
You  are  very  good  to  submit  to  be  pleased  with  reading 
my  nothings.  'Tis  the  privilege  of  friendship  to  talk  non- 
sense, and  to  have  her  nonsense  respected, — Yours  ever, 

C.  LAMB. 

LETTER  XXIV.]  April  7,  1797. 

Your  last  lette-  was  dated  the  10th  of  February ;  in  it 
you  promised  to  write  again  the  next  day.  At  least,  I 
did  not  expect  so  long,  so  unfriend-like  a  silence.  There 
was  a  time,  Col.,  when  a  remissness  of  this  sort  in  a 
dear  friend  would  have  lain  very  heavy  on  my  mind  ;  but 


74  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

latterly  I  have  been  too  familiar  with  neglect  to  feel  much 
from  the  semblance  of  it.  Yet,  to  suspect  one's  self 
overlooked,  and  in  the  way  to  oblivion,  is  a  feeling  rather 
humbling  ;  perhaps,  as  tending  to  self-mortification,  not 
unfavourable  to  the  spiritual  state.  Still,  as  you  meant 
to  confer  no  benefit  on  the  soul  of  your  friend,  you  do 
not  stand  quite  clear  from  the  imputation  of  unkindliness 
(a  word,  by  which  I  mean  the  diminutive  of  unkindness). 

Lloyd  tells  me  he  has  been  very  ill,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  leaving  you.  I  addressed  a  letter  to  him  at 
Birmingham  :  perhaps  he  got  it  not,  and  is  still  with  you. 
I  hope  his  ill-health  has  not  prevented  his  attending  to  a 
request  I  made  in  it,  that  he  would  write  again  very  soon 
to  let  me  know  how  he  was.  I  hope  to  God  poor  Lloyd 
is  not  very  bad,  or  in  a  very  bad  way.  Pray  satisfy  me 
about  these  things. 

And  then  David  Hartley  was  unwell ;  and  how  is  the 
small  philosopher,  the  minute  philosopher  1  and  David's 
mother?  Coleridge,  I  am  not  trifling;  nor  are  these 
matter-of-fact  questions  only.  You  are  all  very  dear  and 
precious  to  me.  Do  what  you  will,  Coleridge,  you  may 
hurt  me  and  vex  me  by  your  silence,  but  you  cannot 
estrange  my  heart  from  you  all.  I  cannot  scatter  friend- 
ships like  chuck-farthings,  nor  let  them  drop  from  mine 
hand  like  hour-glass  sand.  I  have  but  two  or  three  people 
in  the  world  to  whom  I  am  more  than  indifferent,  and  I 
can't  afford  to  whistle  them  off  to  the  winds. 

By  the  way,  Lloyd  may  have  told  you  about  my  sister. 
I  told  him.  If  not,  I  have  taken  her  out  of  her  confine- 
ment, and  taken  a  room  for  her  at  Hackney,  and  spend 
my  Sundays,  holidays,  etc.,  with  her.  She  boards  her- 
self. In  a  little  half-year's  illness,  and  in  such  an  illness, 
of  such  a  nature,  and  of  such  consequences,  to  get  her  out 
into  the  world  again,  with  a  prospect  of  her  never  being 
so  ill  again, — this  is  to  be  ranked  not  among  the  common 
blessings  of  Providence.  May  that  merciful  God  make 
tender  my  heart,  and  make  me  as  thankful,  as  in  my 
distress  I  was  earnest,  in  my  prayers.  Congratulate  me 


TO  COLERIDGE.  75 

on  an  ever-present  and  never-alienable  friend  like  her. 
And  do,  do  insert,  if  you  have  not  lost,  iny  Dedication. 
It  will  have  lost  half  its  value  by  coming  so  late.  If  you 
really  are  going  on  with  that  volume,  I  shall  be  enabled 
in  a  day  or  two  to  send  you  a  short  poem  to  insert.  Now, 
do  answer  this.  Friendship,  and  acts  of  friendship,  should 
be  reciprocal,  and  free  as  the  air.  A  friend  should  never 
be  reduced  to  beg  an  alms  of  his  fellow ;  yet  I  will  beg 
an  alms :  I  entreat  you  to  write,  and  tell  me  all  about 
poor  Lloyd,  and  all  of  you.  God  love  and  preserve  you 
all !  C.  LAMB. 

LETTER  XXV.]  April  15,  1797. 

The  above  you  will  please  to  print  immediately  before 
the  blank  verse  fragments.  Tell  me  if  you  like  it.  I 
fear  the  latter  half  is  unequal  to  the  former,  in  parts  of 
which  I  think  you  will  discover  a  delicacy  of  pencilling 
not  quite  un-Spenser-like.  The  latter  half  aims  at  the 
measure,  but  has  failed  to  attain  the  poetry  of  Milton  in 
his  Comus,  and  Fletcher  in  that  exquisite  thing  ycleped 
the  Faithful  Shepherdess,  where  they  both  use  eight- 
syllable  lines.  But  this  latter  half  was  finished  in  great 
haste,  and  as  a  task,  not  from  that  impulse  which  affects 
the  name  of  inspiration. 

By  the  way,  I  have  lit  upon  Fairfax's  Godfrey  of 
Sullen,  for  half-a-crown.  Rejoice  with  me. 

Poor  dear  Lloyd !  I  had  a  letter  from  him  yesterday ; 
his  state  of  mind  is  truly  alarming.  He  has,  by  his  own 
confession,  kept  a  letter  of  mine  unopened  three  weeks  ; 
afraid,  he  says,  to  open  it,  lest  I  should  speak  upbraidingly 
to  him ;  and  yet  this  very  letter  of  mine  was  in  answer 
to  one,  wherein  he  informed  me  that  an  alarming  illness 
had  alone  prevented  him  from  writing.  You  will  pray 
with  me,  I  know,  for  his  recovery  ;  for  surely,  Coleridge, 
an  exquisiteness  of  feeling  like  this  must  border  on  derange- 
ment. But  I  love  him  more  and  more,  and  will  not  give 
up  the  hope  of  his  speedy  recovery,  as  he  tells  me  he  is 
under  Dr.  Darwin's  regimen. 


76  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

God  bless  us  all,  and  shield  us  from  insanity,  which  ia 
"  the  sorest  malady  of  all." 

My  kind  love  to  your  wife  and  child. 

0.  LAMB. 
Pray  write  now. 


LETTER  XXVL]  1797. 

I  discern  a  possibility  of  my  paying  you  a  visit  next 
week.  May  I,  can  I,  shall  I,  come  so  soon  1  Have  you 
room  for  me,  leisure  for  me  ?  and  are  you  pretty  well  ? 
Tell  me  all  this  honestly — immediately.  And  by  what 
day  coach  could  I  come  soonest  and  nearest  to  Stowey  ? 
A  few  months  hence  may  suit  you  better ;  certainly  me, 
as  well.  If  so,  say  so.  I  long,  I  yearn,  with  all  the 
longings  of  a  child  do  I  desire  to  see  you,  to  come  among 
you — to  see  the  young  philosopher,  to  thank  Sara  for  her 
last  year's  invitation  in  person — to  read  your  tragedy — 
to  read  over  together  our  little  book — to  breathe  frosh 
air — to  revive  in  me  vivid  images  of  "  Salutation  scenery." 
There  is  a  sort  of  sacrilege  in  my  letting  such  ideas  slip 
out  of  my  mind  and  memory.  Still  that  Richardson 
remaineth — a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Hope,  when  she  would 
lean  towards  Stowey.  Here  I  will  leave  off,  for  I  dislike 
to  fill  up  this  paper  (which  involves  a  question  so  con- 
nected with  my  heart  and  soul)  with  meaner  matter,  or 
subjects  to  me  less  interesting.  I  can  talk,  as  I  can 
think,  nothing  else. 

Thursday.  C.  LAMB. 

LETTER  XXVII.]  June  13, 1797. 

I  stared  with  wild  wonderment  to  see  thy  well-known 
hand  again.  It  revived  many  a  pleasing  recollection  of 
an  epistolary  intercourse,  of  late  strangely  suspended, 
once  the  pride  of  my  life.  Before  I  even  opened  thy 
letter  I  figured  to  myself  a  sort  of  complacency  which  my 
Kttle  hoard  at  home  would  feel  at  receiving  the  new- 


TO  COLERIDGE.  77 

turner  into  the  little  drawer  where  I  keep  my  treasures 
o/  this  kind.  You  have  done  well  in  writing  to  me. 
the  little  room  (was  it  not  a  little  one  f)  at  the  Saluta- 
tion was  already  in  the  way  of  becoming  a  fading  idea ! 
It  had  begun  to  be  classed  in  my  memory  with  those 
"  wanderings  with  a  fair  haifd  maid,"  in  the  recollection 
of  which  I  feel  I  have  no  property.  You  press  me,  very 
kindly  do  you  press  me,  to  come  to  Stowey.  Obstacles, 
strong  as  death,  prevent  me  at  present ;  maybe  I  may  be 
able  to  come  before  the  year  is  out.  Believe  me,  I  will 
come  as  soon  as  I  can ;  but  I  dread  naming  a  probable 
time.  It  depends  on  fifty  things,  besides  the  expense, 
which  is  not  nothing.  Lloyd  wants  me  to  come  to  see 
him ;  but,  besides  that  you  have  a  prior  claim  on  me,  I 
should  not  feel  myself  so  much  at  home  with  him,  till  he 
gets  a  house  of  his  own.  As  to  Richardson,  caprice  may 
grant  what  caprice  only  refused ;  and  it  is  no  more  hard- 
ship, rightly  considered,  to  be  dependent  on  him  for 
pleasure,  than  to  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the  rain  and  sun- 
shine for  the  enjoyment  of  a  holiday :  in  either  case  we 
are  not  to  look  for  a  suspension  of  the  laws  of  Nature. 
"  Gryll  will  be  Gryll."  Vide  Spenser. 

I  could  not  but  smile  at  the  compromise  you  make 
with  me  for  printing  Lloyd's  poems  first ;  but  there  is  in 
nature,  I  fear,  too  many  tendencies  to  envy  and  jealousy 
not  to  justify  you  in  your  apology.  Yet,  if  any  one  is 
welcome  to  pre-eminence  from  me,  it  is  Lloyd,  for  he 
would  be  the  last  to  desire  it.  So  pray,  let  his  name 
uniformly  precede  mine,  for  it  would  be  treating  me  like 
a  child  to  suppose  it  could  give  me  pain.  Yet,  alas  ! '  I 
am  not  insusceptible  of  the  bad  passions.  Thank  God, 
I  have  the  ingenuousness  to  be  ashamed  of  them.  I  am 
dearly  fond  of  Charles  Lloyd ;  he  is  all  goodness ;  and  I 
have  too  much  of  the  world  in  my  composition  to  feel 
myself  thoroughly  deserving  of  his  friendship. 

Lloyd  tells  me  that  Sheridan  put  you  upon  writing 
your  tragedy.  I  hope  you  are  only  Coleridgeising  when 
you  talk  of  finishing  it  in  a  few  days.  Shakspeare  was 


78  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

a  more   modest   man ;   but  you  best  know  your  own 
power. 

Of  my  last  poem  you  speak  slightingly.  Surely  the 
longer  stanzas  were  pretty  tolerable  :  at  least  there  was 
one  good  line  in  it, 

' '  Thick-shaded  trees,  with  dark  green  leaf  rich  clad." 

To  adopt  your  own  expression,  I  call  this  a  "  rich " 
line,  a  fine  fidl  line.  And  some  others  I  thought  even 
beautiful.  Believe  me,  my  little  gentleman  will  feel 
some  repugnance  at  riding  behind  in  the  basket ;  though, 
I  confess,  in  pretty  good  company.  Your  picture  of 
idiocy,  with  the  sugar-loaf  head,  is  exquisite ;  but  are 
you  not  too  severe  upon  our  more  favoured  brethren  in 
fatuity  ?  Lloyd  tells  me  how  ill  your  wife  and  child 
have  been.  I  rejoice  that  they  are  better.  My  kindest 
remembrances,  and  those  of  my  sister.  I  send  you  a 
trifling  letter ;  but  you  have  only  to  think  that  I  have 
been  skimming  the  superficies  of  my  mind,  and  found  it 
only  froth.  Now,  do  write  again  !  You  cannot  believe 
how  I  long  and  love  always  to  hear  about  you.  Yours 
most  affectionately,  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Monday  Night. 


LETTER  XXVIII.]  June  24,  1797. 

Did  you  seize  the  grand  opportunity  of  seeing  Kos- 
ciusko  while  he  was  at  Bristol  1  I  never  saw  a  hero ;  I 
wonder  how  they  look.  I  have  been  reading  a  most 
curious  romance-like  work,  called  the  Life  of  John 
JBuncle,  Esq.  'Tis  very  interesting,  and  an  extraordinary 
compound  of  all  manner  of  subjects,  from  the  depth  of 
the  ludicrous  to  the  heights  of  sublime  religious  truth. 
There  is  much  abstruse  science  in  it  above  my  cut,  and 
an  infinite  fund  of  pleasantry.  John  Buncle  is  a  famous 
fine  man,  formed  in  Nature's  most  eccentric  hour.  I  am 
ashamed  of  what  I  write ;  but  I  have  no  topic  to  talk  of. 
I  see  nobody.  I  sit  and  read,  or  walk  alone,  and  hear 


TO  COLERIDGE.  79 

nothing.  I  am  .quite  lost  to  conversation  from  disuse  ; 
and  out  of  the  sphere  of  my  little  family  (who,  I  am 
thankful,  are  dearer  and  dearer  to  me  every  day)  I  sen 
no  face  that  brightens  up  at  my  approach.  My  friends 
are  at  a  distance.  Worldly  hopes  are  at  a  low  ebb  with 
me,  and  unworldly  thoughts  are  familiarised  to  me, 
though  I  occasionally  indulge  in  them.  Still  I  feel  a 
calm  not  unlike  content.  I  fear  it  is  sometimes  more 
akin  to  physical  stupidity  than  to  a  heaven-flowing 
serenity  and  peace.  What  right  have  I  to  obtrude  all 
this  upon  you1?  and  what  is  such  a  letter  to  you?  and  if 
I  come  to  Stowey,  what  conversation  can  I  furnish  to 
compensate  my  friend  for  those  stores  of  knowledge  and  of 
fancy ;  those  delightful  treasures  of  wisdom  which  I  know 
he  will  open  to  me  1  But  it  is  better  to  give  than  to 
receive ;  and  I  was  a  very  patient  hearer  and  docile 
scholar,  in  our  winter  evening  meetings  at  Mr.  May's ; 
was  I  not,  Col.  ?  What  I  have  owed  to  thee,  my  heart 
can  ne'er  forget. 

God  love  you  and  yours  1  0.  L. 

Saturday. 


LETTER  XXIX.]  July  1797. 

I  am  scarcely  yet  so  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  you, 
or  so  subsided  into  my  wonted  uniformity  of  feeling, 
as  to  sit  calmly  down  to  think  of  you  and  write  to  you. 
But  I  reason  myself  into  the  belief  that  those  few  and 
pleasant  holidays  shall  not  have  been  spent  in  vain. 
I  feel  improvement  in  the  recollection  of  many  a  casual 
conversation.  The  names  of  Tom  Poole,  of  Wordsworth 
and  his  good  sister,  with  thine  and  Sara's,  are  become 
"familiar  in  my  mouth  as  household  words."  You 
would  make  me  very  happy  if  you  think  W.  has  no 
objection,  by  transcribing  for  me  that  inscription  of  his. 
I  have  some  scattered  sentences  ever  floating  on  my 
memory,  teasing  me  that  I  cannot  remember  more  of 
it.  You  may  believe  I  will  make  no  improper  use  of 


80  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

It.  Believe  me  I  can  think  now  of  many  subjects  on 
which  I  had  planned  gaining  information  from  you ; 
but  I  forgot  rny  "  treasure's  worth "  while  I  possessed 
it.  Your  leg  is  now  become  to  me  a  matter  of  much 
more  importance ;  and  many  a  little  thing,  which  when 
I  was  present  with  you  seemed  scarce  to  indent  my 
notice,  now  presses  painfully  on  my  remembrance.  Is 
the  Patriot  come  ?  Are  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  gone 
yet  ?  I  was  looking  out  for  John  Thelwall  all  the  way 
from  Bridge  water ;  and  had  I  met  him,  I  think  it  would 
have  moved  almost  me  to  tears.  You  will  oblige  me, 
too,  by  sending  me  my  great-coat,  which  I  left  behind 
in  the  oblivious  state  the  mind  is  thrown  into  at  part- 
ing. Is  it  not  ridiculous  that  I  sometimes  envy  that 
great-coat  lingering  so  cunningly  behind  !  At  present 
I  have  none :  so  send  it  to  me  by  a  Stowey  waggon, 
if  there  be  such  a  thing,  directing  for  C.  L.,  No.  45, 
Chapel  Street,  Pentonville,  near  London.  But  above 
all,  that  Inscription  !  It  will  recall  to  me  the  tones  of 
all  your  voices,  and  with  them  many  a  remembered 
kindness  to  one  who  could  and  can  repay  you  all  only 
by  the  silence  of  a  grateful  heart.  I  could  not  talk 
much  while  I  was  with  you;  but  my  silence  was  not 
sullenness,  nor  I  hope  from  any  bad  motive  ;  but,  iu 
truth,  disuse  has  made  me  awkward  at  it.  I  know  I 
behaved  myself,  particularly  at  Tom  Poole's,  and  at 
Cruikshank's,  most  like  a  sulky  child ;  but  company 
and  converse  are  strange  to  me.  It  was  kind  in  you 
all  to  endure  me  as  you  did. 

Are  you  and  your  dear  Sara — to  me  also  very  dear, 
because  very  kind — agreed  yet  about  the  management  of 
little  Hartley  ?  And  how  go  on  the  little  rogue's  teeth  I 
I  will  see  White  to-morrow  and  he  shall  send  you  inform- 
ation on  that  matter ;  but  as  perhaps  I  can  do  it  as  well, 
after  talking  with  him,  I  will  keep  this  letter  open. 

My  love  and  thanks  to  you  and  all  of  you, 

C.  L. 

Wednesday  Evening. 


TO  COLERIDGE  81 

LETTER  XXX.]  September  1797. 

WRITTEN  A  TWELVEMONTH  AFTER  THE  EVENTS. 
{Friday  next,  Coleridge,  is  the  day  on  which  my  Mother  died.} 

Alas  !  how  I  am  changed  !     Where  be  the  tears 

The  sobs,  and  forced  suspensions  of  the  breath 

And  all  the  dull  desertions  of  tlie  heart 

With  which  I  hung  o'er  my  dear  mother's  corse  ? 

Where  be  the  blest  subsidings  of  the  storm 

Within  ;  the  sweet  resignedness  of  hope 

Drawn  heavenward,  and  strength  of  filial  love, 

In  which  I  bow'd  me  to  my  Father's  will? 

My  God  and  my  Redeemer,  keep  not  thou 

My  heart  in  brute  and  sensual  thanklessness 

Seal'd  up,  oblivious  ever  of  that  dear  grace, 

And  health  restor'd  to  my  long-loved  friend, 

Long-lcv'd,  aud  worthy  known  !  Thou  didst  not  leave 

Her  soul  in  death.     0  leave  not  now,  my  Lord, 

Thy  servants  in  far  worse — in  spiritual  death 

And  darkness — blacker  than  those  feared  shadows 

O'  the  valley  all  must  tread.     Lend  us  thy  balms, 

Thou  dear  Physician  of  the  sin-sick  soul, 

And  heal  our  cleansed  bosoms  of  the  wounds 

With  which  the  world  hath  pierc'd  us  thro"  and  thro*  I 

Give  us  new  flesh,  new  birth  ;  Elect  of  heaven 

May  we  become,  in  thine  election  sure 

Contain'd,  and  to  one  purpose  steadfast  drawn — 

Our  souls'  salvation. 

Thou  and  I,  dear  friend, 
With  filial  recognition  sweet,  shall  know 
One  day  the  face  of  our  clear  mother  in  heaven, 
And  her  remember'd  looks  of  love  shall  greet 
With  answering  looks  of  love,  her  placid  smiles 
Meet  with  a  smile  as  placid,  and  her  hand 
With  drops  of  fondness  wet,  nor  fear  repulse. 

Be  witness  for  me,  Lord,  I  do  not  ask 
Those  days  of  vanity  to  return  again 
(Nor  fitting  me  to  ask,  nor  thee  to  give), 
Vain  loves,  and  "  wanderings  with  a  fair-hair'd  maid  }" 
(Child  of  the  dust  as  I  am),  who  so  long 
My  foolish  heart  steep'd  in  idolatry, 
And  creature-loves.     Forgive  it,  0  my  Maker  1 
If  in  a  mood  of  grief,  I  sin  almost 
In  sometimes  brooding  on  the  days  long  past, 
G 


82  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

(And  from  the  grave  of  time  wishing  them  back), 
Pays  of  a  mother's  fondness  to  her  child — 
Her  little  one  !     Oh,  where  be  now  those  sports 
And  infant  play-games  ?     Where  the  joyous  troops 
Of  children,  and  the  haunts  I  did  so  love  ? 

0  my  companions  !     0  ye  loved  names 

Of  friend,  or  playmate  dear,  gone  are  ye  now. 
Gone  divers  ways  ;  to  honour  and  credit  some  ; 
And  some,  I  fear,  to  ignominy  and  shame  I 

1  only  am  left,  with  unavailing  grief 

One  parent  dead  to  mourn,  and  see  one  live 
Of  all  life's  joys  bereft,  and  desolate  : 
Am  left,  with  a  fe\v  friends,  and  one  above 
The  rest,  found  faithful  in  a  length  of  years, 
Contented  as  I  may,  to  bear  me  on, 
T"  the  not  unpeaceful  evening  of  a  day 
Made  black  by  morning  storms. 

The  following  I  wrote  when  I  had  returned  from 
Charles  Lloyd,  leaving  him  behind  at  Burton,  with 
Southey.  To  understand  some  of  it  you  must  remember 
that  at  that  time  he  was  very  much  perplexed  in  mind. 

A  stranger,  and  alone,  I  pass'd  those  scenes 

We  pass'd  so  late  together  ;  and  my  heart 

Felt  something  like  desertion,  as  I  look'd 

Around  me,  and  the  pleasant  voice  of  friend 

Was  absent,  and  the  cordial  look  was  there 

No  more,  to  smile  on  me.     I  thought  on  Lloyd — 

All  he  had  been  to  me  !    And  now  I  go 

Again  to  mingle  with  a  world  impure  ; 

With  men  who  make  a  mock  of  holy  things, 

Mistaken,  and  of  man's  best  hope  think  scorn. 

The  world  does  much  to  warp  the  heart  of  man ; 

And  I  may  sometimes  join  its  idiot  laugh  : 

Of  this  I  now  complain  not.     Deal  with  me, 

Omniscient  Father,  as  thou  judgest  best, 

And  in  thy  season  soften  thou  my  heart. 

I  pray  not  for  myself  :  I  pray  for  him 

Whose  soul  is  sore  perplexed.     Shine  thou  on  him, 

Father  of  lights  !  and  in  the  difficult  paths 

Make  plain  his  way  before  him  :  his  own  thoughts 

May  he  not  think — his  own  ends  not  pursue — 

So  shall  he  best  perform  thy  will  on  earth. 

Greatest  and  Best,  Thy  will  be  ever  ours  ! 

The  former  of  these  poems  I  wrote  with   unusual 


TO  COLERIDGE.  83 

celerity  t'other  morning  at  office.  I  expect  you  to  like  it 
better  than  anything  of  mine;  Lloyd  does,  and  I  do  myself. 

You  use  Lloyd  very  ill,  never  writing  to  him.  I  tell 
you  again  that  his  is  not  a  mind  with  which  you  should 
play  tricks.  He  deserves  more  tenderness  from  you. 

For  myself,  I  must  spoil  a  little  passage  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  to  adapt  it  to  my  feelings  : — 

"I  am  prouder 

That  I  was  once  your  friend,  tho'  now  forgot, 
Than  to  have  had  another  true  to  me." 

If  you  don't  write  to  me  now,  as  I  told  Lloyd,  I  shall 
get  angry,  and  call  you  hard  names — Manchineel,  and  I 
don't  know  what  else.  I  wish  you  would  send  me  my 
great-coat.  The  snow  and  the  rain  season  is  at  hand, 
and  I  have  but  a  wretched  old  coat,  once  my  father's,  to 
keep  'em  off,  and  that  is  transitory. 

"  When  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  ways  grow  foul  and  blood  gets  cold," 

I  shall  remember  where  I  left  my  coat.  Meet  emblem 
wilt  thou  be,  old  Winter,  of  a  friend's  neglect — cold,  cold, 
cold !  C.  LAMB. 

LETTER  XXXI.]  December  10,  1797. 

I  am  sorry  I  cannot  now  relish  your  poetical  present  so 
thoroughly  as  I  feel  it  deserves ;  but  I  do  not  the  less 
thank  Lloyd  and  you  for  it. 

Before  I  offer,  what  alone  I  have  to  offer,  a  few  obvious 
remarks  on  the  poems  you  sent  me,  I  can  but  notice  the 
odd  coincidence  of  two  young  men,  in  one  age,  carolling 
their  grandmothers.  Love,  what  L.  calls  the  "feverish 
and  romantic  tie,"  hath  too  long  domineered  over  all  the 
charities  of  home  :  the  dear  domestic  ties  of  father,  brother, 
husband.  The  amiable  and  benevolent  Cowper  has  a 
beautiful  passage  in  his  "  Task," — some  natural  and  pain- 
ful reflections  on  his  deceased  parents :  and  Hayley's  sweet 
lines  to  his  mother  are  notoriously  the  best  things  he  ever 
wrote.  Cowper's  lines,  some  of  them  are — 


84  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

"  How  gladly  would  the  man  recall  to  life 
The  boy's  neglected  sire  !  a  Mother,  too, 
That  softer  friend,  perhaps  more  gladly  still, 
Might  he  demand  them  at  the  gates  of  death." 

I  cannot  but  smile  to  see  my  granny  so  gaily  decked 
forth :  though,  I  think,  whoever  altered  "  thy "  praises 
to  "her"  praises — "thy"  honoured  memory  to  "her" 
honoured  memory,  did  wrong ;  they  best  expressed  my 
feelings.  There  is  a  pensive  state  of  recollection  in  which 
the  mind  is  disposed  to  apostrophise  the  departed  objects 
of  its  attachment ;  and,  breaking  loose  from  grammatical 
precision,  changes  from  the  first  to  the  third,  and  from 
the  third  to  the  first  person,  just  as  the  random  fancy 
or  the  feeling  directs.  Among  Lloyd's  sonnets,  the  6th, 
7th.  8th,  9th,  and  llth,  are  eminently  beautiful.  I 
think  him  too  lavish  of  his  expletives  :  the  do's  and  did's, 
when  they  occur  too  often,  bring  a  quaintness  with  them 
along  with  their  simplicity,  or  rather  air  of  antiquity, 
which  the  patrons  of  them  seem  desirous  of  conveying. 

Another  time,  I  may  notice  more  particularly  Lloyd's, 
Southey's,  Dermody's  Sonnets.  I  shrink  from  them  now: 
my  teasing  lot  makes  me  too  confused  for  a  clear  judgment 
of  things,  too  selfish  for  sympathy ;  and  these  ill-digested, 
meaningless  remarks,  I  have  imposed  on  myself  as  a  task, 
to  lull  reflection,  as  well  as  to  show  you  I  did  not  neglect 
reading  your  valuable  present.  Return  my  acknowledg- 
ments to  Lloyd ;  you  two  seem  to  be  about  realising  an 
Elysium  upon  earth,  and,  no  doubt,  I  shall  be  happier. 
Take  my  best  wishes.  Remember  me  most  affectionately 

to  Mrs.  C ,  and  give  little  David  Hartley  (God  bless 

its  little  heart !)  a  kiss  for  me.  Bring  him  up  to  know 
the  meaning  of  his  Christian  name,  and  what  that  name 
(imposed  upon  him)  will  demand  of  him, 

God  love  you  !  0.  LAMB. 

I  write,  for  one  thing,  to  say  that  I  shall  write  no 
more  till  you  send  me  word  where  you  are,  for  you  are 
BO  soon  to  move. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  85 

My  sister  is  pretty  well,  thank  God.  We  think  of 
you  very  often.  God  bless  you :  continue  to  be  my 
correspondent,  and  I  will  strive  to  fancy  that  this  world 
is  not  "  all  barrenness." 


LETTER  XXXII.  ]  January  28,  1798. 

You  have  writ  me  many  kind  letters,  and  I  have 
answered  none  of  them.  I  don't  deserve  your  attentions. 
An  unnatural  indifference  has  been  creeping  on  me  since 
my  last  misfortunes,  or  I  should  have  seized  the  first 
opening  of  a  correspondence  with  you.  To  you  I  owe 
much,  under  God.  In  my  brief  acquaintance  with  you  in 
London,  your  conversations  won  me  to  the  better  cause, 
and  rescued  me  from  the  polluting  spirit  of  the  world. 
I  might  have  been  a  worthless  character  without  you; 
as  it  is,  I  do  possess  a  certain  improvable  portion  of 
devotional  feelings,  tho'  when  I  view  myself  in  the  light 
of  divine  truth,  and  not  accord  ing  to  the  common  measures 
of  human  judgment,  I  am  altogether  corrupt  and  sinful. 
This  is  no  cant.  I  am  very  sincere. 

These  last  afflictions,  Coleridge,  have  failed  to  soften 
and  bend  my  will.  They  found  me  unprepared.  My 
former  calamities  produced  in  me  a  spirit  of  humility  and 
a  spirit  of  prayer.  I  thought  they  had  sufficiently  dis- 
ciplined me ;  but  the  event  ought  to  humble  me.  If 
God's  judgment  now  fail  to  take  away  from  me  the  heart 
of  stone,  what  more  grievous  trials  ought  I  not  to  expect  1 
I  have  been  very  querulous,  impatient  under  the  rod — 
full  of  little  jealousies  and  heart  burnings.  I  had  well- 
nigh  quarrelled  with  Charles  Lloyd ;  and  for  no  other 
reason,  I  believe,  than  that  the  good  creature  did  all  he 
could  to  make  me  happy.  The  truth  is,  I  thought  he 
tried  to  force  my  mind  from  its  natural  and  proper  bent. 
He  continually  wished  me  to  be  from  home;  he  was 
drawing  me  from  the  consideration  of  my  poor  dear  Mary's 
situation,  rather  than  assisting  me  to  gain  a  proper  view 
of  it  with  religious  consolations.  I  wanted  to  be  left  to 


86  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  tendency  of  my  own  mind,  in  a  solitary  state,  -which, 
in  times  past,  I  knew  had  led  to  quietness  and  a  patient 
bearing  of  the  yoke.  He  was  hurt  that  I  was  not  more 
constantly  with  him  ;  but  he  was  living  with  White,  a 
man  to  whom  I  had  never  been  accustomed  to  impart 
my  dearest  feelings,  tho'  from  long  habits  of  friendliness, 
and  many  a  social  and  good  quality,  I  loved  him  very 
much.  I  met  company  there  sometimes— indiscriminate 
company.  Any  society  almost,  when  I  am  in  affliction, 
is  sorely  painful  to  me.  I  seem  to  breathe  more  freely, 
to  think  more  collectedly,  to  feel  more  properly  and 
calmly,  when  alone.  All  these  things  the  good  creature 
did  with  the  kindest  intentions  in  the  world,  but  they 
produced  in  me  nothing  but  soreness  and  discontent.  I 
became,  as  he  complained,  "jaundiced"  towards  him  .  .  . 
but  he  has  forgiven  me ;  and  his  smile,  I  hope,  will  draw 
all  such  humours  from  me.  I  am  recovering,  God  be 
praised  for  it,  a  healthiness  of  mind,  something  like  calm- 
ness ;  but  I  want  more  religion.  I  am  jealous  of  human 
helps  and  leaning-places.  I  rejoice  in  your  good  fortunes. 
May  God  at  the  last  settle  you ! — You  have  had  many 
and  painful  trials ;  humanly  speaking  they  are  going  to 
end  ;  but  we  should  rather  pray  that  discipline  may  attend 
us  thru'  the  whole  of  our  lives.  ...  A  careless  and  a 
dissolute  spirit  has  advanced  upon  me  with  large  strides. 
Pray  God  that  my  present  afflictions  may  be  sanctified 
to  me !  Mary  is  recovering ;  but  I  see  no  opening  yet 
of  a  situation  for  her.  Your  invitation  went  to  my  very 
heart ;  but  you  have  a  power  of  exciting  interest,  of  lead- 
ing all  hearts  captive,  too  forcible  to  admit  of  Mary's  being 
with  you.  I  consider  her  as  perpetually  on  the  brink  of 
madness.  I  tbink  you  would  almost  make  her  dance 
within  an  inch  of  the  precipice  :  she  must  be  with  duller 
fancies,  and  cooler  intellects.  I  know  a  young  man  of 
this  description,  who  has  suited  her  these  twenty  years, 
and  may  live  to  do  so  still,  if  we  are  one  day  restored  to 
each  other.  In  answer  to  your  suggestions  of  occupation 
for  me,  I  must  say  that  I  do  not  think  my  capacity  alto- 


TO  SOUTHEY.  87 

gether  suited  for  disquisitions  of  that  kind.  ...  I  have 
read  little,  I  have  a  very  weak  memory,  and  retain  little 
of  what  I  read ;  am  unused  to  compositions  in  which  any 
methodising  is  required ;  but  I  thank  you  sincerely  foi 
the  hint,  and  shall  receive  it  as  far  as  I  am  able  ;  that  is, 
endeavour  to  engage  my  mind  in  some  constant  and 
innocent  pursuit.  I  know  my  capacities  better  than  you 
do. 

Accept  my  kindest  love,  and  believe  me  yours,  as 
ever.  0.  L. 

S.  T.  Coleridge, 
at  the  Reverend  A. 


To  EGBERT  SOUTHEY. 

LETTER  XXXIII.  ]  July  28, 1798. 

Dear  Southey — I  am  ashamed  that  I  have  not  thanked 
you  before  this  for  the  Joan  of  Arc,  but  I  did  not  know 
your  address,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  me  to  write  through 
Cottle.  The  poem  delighted  me,  and  the  notes  amused 
me;  but  methinks  she  of  Neufchatel,  in  the  print,  holds 
her  sword  too  "like  a  dancer."  I  sent  your  notice  to 
Phillips,  particularly  requesting  an  immediate  insertion, 
but  I  suppose  it  came  too  late.  I  am  sometimes  curious  to 
know  what  progress  you  make  in  that  same  "  Calendar  :" 
Avhether  you  insert  the  nine  worthies  and  Whittington  1 
what  you  do  or  how  you  can  manage  when  two  Saints 
meet  and  quarrel  for  precedency?  Martlemas,  and 
Candlemas,  and  Christmas,  are  glorious  themes  for  a 
writer  like  you,  antiquity-bitten,  smit  with  the  love  of 
boars'  heads  and  rosemary ;  but  how  you  can  ennoble  the 
1st  of  April  I  know  not.  By  the  way,  I  had  a  thing  to 
say,  but  a  certain  false  modesty  has  hitherto  prevented 


88  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

me  :  perhaps  I  can  best  communicate  my  wish  by  a  hint. 
My  birthday  is  on  the  10th  of  February,  New  Style ;  but 
if  it  interferes  with  any  remarkable  event,  why  rather 
than  my  country  should  lose  her  fame,  I  care  not  if  I 
put  my  nativity  back  eleven  days.  Fine  family  patron- 
age for  your  "  Calendar,"  if  that  old  lady  of  prolific 
memory  were  living,  who  lies  (or  lyes)  in  some  church 
in  London  (saints  forgive  me,  but  I  have  forgot  what 
church),  attesting  that  enormous  legend  of  as  many 
children  as  days  in  the  year.  I  marvel  her  impudence 
did  not  grasp  at  a  leap-year.  Three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  dedications,  and  all  in  a  family  !  You  might  spit,  in 
spirit,  on  the  oneness  of  Maecenas's  patronage  ! 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  to  the  eternal  regret  of  his 
native  Devonshire,  emigrates  to  Westphalia:  "Poor 
Lamb"  (these  were  his  last  words),  "if  he  wants  any 
knowledge,  he  may  apply  to  me."  In  ordinary  cases  I 
thanked  him.  I  have  an  "  Encyclopaedia  "  at  hand ;  but 
on  such  an  occasion  as  going  over  to  a  German  university, 
I  could  not  refrain  from  sending  him  the  following  pro- 
positions, to  be  by  him  defended  or  oppugned  (or  both) 
at  Leipsic  or  Gottingen. 

THESES  QU^EDAM  THEOLOGIC.S. 
L 

"  Whether  God  loves  a  lying  angel  better  than  a  true 
man?" 

IL 

"  Whether  the  archangel  Uriel  could  knowingly  affirm 
an  untruth,  and  whether,  if  he  could,  he  would  ?  " 

ra. 

"  Whether  honesty  be  an  angelic  virtue,  or  not  rather 
belonging  to  that  class  of  qualities  which  the  schoolmen 
term  '  virtutes  minus  splendidae  et  hominis  et  terrse  nimis 
participes  1 ' " 


TO  SOUTHEY.  89 

rv. 

"Whether  the  seraphim  ardentes  do  not  manifest 
their  goodness  by  the  way  of  vision  and  theory  ?  and 
whether  practice  be  not  a  sub-celestial,  and  merely  human 
virtue?" 

v. 

"Whether  the  higher  order  of  seraphim  illuminati 
ever  sneer  ?  " 

VI. 

"  Whether  pure  intelligences  can  love,  or  whether  they 
can  love  anything  besides  pure  intellect  ? " 

VII. 

"  Whether  the  beatific  vision  be  anything  more  or  less 
than  a  perpetual  representment  to  each  individual  angel 
of  his  own  present  attainments,  and  future  capabilities, 
something  in  the  manner  of  mortal  looking-glasses?" 

VIII. 

"  Whether  an  '  immortal  and  amenable  soul '  may  not 
come  to  be  damned  at  last,  and  the  man  never  suspect  it 
beforehand  9" 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  hath  not  deigned  an  answer. 
Was  it  impertinent  of  me  to  avail  myself  of  that  offered 
source  of  knowledge  ? 

Wishing  Madoc  may  be  born  into  the  world  with  as 
splendid  promise  as  the  second  birth,  or  purification,  of 
the  Maid  of  Neufchatel, — I  remain  yours  sincerely, 

C.  LAMB. 

I  hope  Edith  is  better ;  my  kindest  remembrances  to 
her.  You  have  a  good  deal  of  trifling  to  forgive  in  this 
letter. 

"  Love  and  remembrances  to  Cottle." 


90  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LETTER  XXXIV.]  October  18, 1798. 

Dear  Southey — I  have  at  last  been  so  fortunate  as  tc 
pick  up  Wither's  Emblems  for  you,  that  "  old  book  and 
quaint,"  as  the  brief  author  of  JRosamund  Gray  hath  it ; 
it  is  in  a  most  detestable  state  of  preservation,  and  the 
cuts  are  of  a  fainter  impression  than  I  have  seen.  Some 
child,  the  curse  of  antiquaries  and  bane  of  bibliopical 
rarities,  hath  been  dabbling  in  some  of  them  with  its 
paint  and  dirty  fingers ;  and,  in  particular,  hath  a  little 
sullied  the  author's  own  portraiture,  which  I  think 
valuable,  as  the  poem  that  accompanies  it  is  no  common 
one ;  this  last  excepted,  the  Emblems  are  far  inferior  to 
old  Quarles.  I  once  told  you  otherwise,  but  I  had  not 
then  read  old  Quarles  with  attention.  I  have  picked  up, 
too,  another  copy  of  Quarles  for  ninepence  ! ! !  0  tem- 
pera !  0  lectores  !  so  that  if  you  have  lost  or  parted  with 
your  own  copy,  say  so,  and  I  can  furnish  you,  for  you 
prize  these  things  more  than  I  do.  You  will  be  amused, 
I  think,  with  honest  Wither's  "  Supersedeas  to  all  them 
whose  custom  it  is,  without  any  deserving,  to  importune 
authors  to  give  unto  them  their  books."  I  am  sorry  'tis 
imperfect,  as  the  lottery  board  annexed  to  it  also  is. 
Methinks  you  might  modernise  and  elegantise  this  Super- 
sedeas, and  place  it  in  front  of  your  Joan  of  Arc,  as  a 
gentle  hint  to  Messrs.  Parke,  etc.  One  of  the  happiest 
emblems,  and  comicalest  cuts,  is  the  owl  and  little 
chirpers,  page  63. 

Wishing  you  all  amusement,  which  your  true  emblem- 
fancier  can  scarce  fail  to  find  in  even  bad  emblems,  I 
remain  your  caterer  to  command,  C.  LAMB. 

Love  and  respects  to  Edith.  I  hope  she  is  well 
How  does  your  Calendar  prosper  ? 

LETTER  XXXV.] 

Dear  Southey — I  thank  you  heartily  for  the  Eclogue  ; 
it  pleases  me  mightily,  being  so  full  of  picture  work  and 


TO  SOUTHEY.  91 

circumstances.  I  find  no  fault  in  it,  unless  perhaps  that 
Joanna's  ruin  is  a  catastrophe  too  trite ;  and  this  is  not 
the  first  or  second  time  you  have  clothed  your  indigna- 
tion, in  verse,  in  a  tale  of  ruined  innocence.  The  old 
lady,  spinning  in  the  sun,  I  hope  would  not  disdain  to 
claim  some  kindred  with  old  Margaret.  I  could  almost 
wish  you  to  vary  some  circumstances  in  the  conclusion. 
A  gentleman  seducer  has  so  often  been  described  in  prose 
and  verse.  What  if  you  had  accomplished  Joanna's  ruin 
by  the  clumsy  arts  and  rustic  gifts  of  some  country- 
fellow  ?  I  am  thinking,  I  believe,  of  the  song — 

"  An  old  woman  clothed  in  gray, 

Whose  daughter  was  charming  and  young, 
And  she  was  deluded  away 

By  Roger's  false  flattering  tongue." 

A  Roger-Lothario  would  be  a  novel  character ;  I  think 
you  might  paint  him  very  well.  You  may  think  this  a 
very  silly  suggestion,  and  so  indeed  it  is ;  but,  in  good 
truth,  nothing  else  but  the  first  words  of  that  foolish 
ballad  put  me  upon  scribbling  my  Rosamund.  But  I 
thank  you  heartily  for  the  poem.  Not  having  anything 
of  my  own  to  send  you  in  return  (though,  to  tell  truth, 
I  am  at  work  upon  something,  which,  if  I  were  to  cut 
away  and  garble,  perhaps  I  might  send  you  an  extract  or 
two  that  might  not  displease  you  ;  but  I  will  not  do  that ; 
and  whether  it  will  come  to  anything  I  know  not,  for  I 
am  as  slow  as  a  Fleming  painter,  when  I  compose  any- 
thing) I  will  crave  leave  to  put  down  a  few  lines  of  old 
Christopher  Marlow's ;  I  take  them  from  his  tragedy, 
Jew  of  Malta.  The  Jew  is  a  famous  character,  quite 
out  of  nature ;  but,  when  we  consider  the  terrible  idea 
our  simple  ancestors  had  of  a  Jew,  not  more  to  be  dis- 
commended for  a  certain  discolouring  (I  think  Addison 
calls  it)  than  the  witches  and  fairies  of  Marlow's  mighty 
r.uccessor.  The  scene  is  betwixt  Barabbas,  the  Jew, 
and  Ithamore,  a  Turkish  captive,  exposed  to  sale  for  a 
slave. 


92  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

BARABBAS. 
(.4  precious  rascal.) 

"  As  for  myself,  I  walk  abroad  a-nights, 
And  kill  sick  people  groaning  under  walls ; 
Sometimes  I  go  about,  and  poison  wells  ; 
And  now  and  then,  to  cherish  Christian  thieves, 
I  am  content  to  lose  some  of  my  crowns, 
That  I  may,  walking  in  my  gallery, 
See  'm  go  piuion'd  along  by  my  door. 
Being  young,  I  studied  physic,  and  began 
To  practice  first  upon  the  Italian  : 
There  I  enrich'd  the  priests  with  biirials, 
And  always  kept  the  sexton's  arms  in  use 
With  digging  graves,  and  ringing  dead  men's  knells  t 
And  after  that  was  I  an  engineer, 
And  in  the  wars  'twixt  France  and  Germany, 
Under  pretence  of  serving  Charles  the  Fifth. 
Slew  friends  and  enemy  with  mv  stratagems. 
Then  after  that  was  I  an  usurer, 
And  with  extorting,  cozening,  forfeiting, 
And  tricks  belonging  unto  brokery, 
I  fill'd  the  jails  with  bankrupts  in  a  year, 
And  with  young  orphans  planted  hospitals, 
And  every  moon  made  some  or  other  mad, 
And  now  and  then  one  hang  himself  for  grief, 
Pinning  upon  his  breast  a  long  great  scroll, 
How  I  with  interest  had  tormented  him." 

(Now  hear  Ithamore,  the  other  gentle  nature.) 

ITBTAMORE. 
(.4  comical  dog.) 

M  Faith,  master,  and  I  have  spent  my  time 
In  setting  Christian  villages  on  fire, 
Chaining  of  eunuchs,  binding  galley  slaves. 
One  time  I  was  an  hostler  at  an  inn, 
And  in  the  night  time  secretly  would  I  steal 
To  travellers'  chambers,  and  there  cut  their  throats. 
Once  at  Jerusalem,  where  the  pilgrims  kneel'd, 
I  strew'd  powder  on  the  marble  stones, 
And  therewithal  their  knees  would  rankle  so, 
That  I  have  laugh'd  a  good  to  see  the  cripples 
Go  limping  home  to  Christendom  on  stilts." 


TO  SOUTHEY  91 

BAKABBAS. 
"  Why,  this  is  somtihing." 

There  is  a  mixture  of  the  ludicrous  and  the  terrible  in 
these  lines,  brimful  of  genius  and  antique  invention,  that 
at  first  reminded  me  of  your  old  description  of  cruelty  in 
hell,  which  was  in  the  true  Hogarthian  style.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  Marlow  was  author  of  that  pretty 
madrigal,  "  Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love,"  and  of 
the  tragedy  of  Edward  II. ,  in  which  are  certain  lines 
unequalled  in  our  English  tongue.  Honest  Walton  men- 
tions the  said  madrigal  under  the  denomination  of 
"  certain  smooth  verses  made  long  since  by  Kit  Marlow." 

I  am  glad  you  have  put  me  on  the  scent  after  old 
Quarles.  If  I  do  not  put  up  those  eclogues,  and  that 
shortly,  say  I  am  no  true-nosed  hound.  I  have  had  a 
letter  from  Lloyd ;  the  young  metaphysician  of  Gains  is 
well,  and  is  busy  recanting  the  new  heresy,  metaphysics, 
for  the  old  dogma,  Greek.  My  sister,  I  thank  you,  is 
quite  well.  She  had  a  slight  attack  the  other  day,  which 
frightened  me  a  good  deal,  but  it  went  off  unaccountably. 
Love  and  respects  to  Edith. 

Yours  sincerely,  0.  LAMB. 


LETTER  XXXVI.]  November  3, 1798. 

I  have  read  your  Eclogue  repeatedly,  and  cannot  call 
it  bald,  or  without  interest;  the  cast  of  it  and  the 
design  are  completely  original,  and  may  set  people  upon 
tl linking.  It  is  as  poetical  as  the  subject  requires,  which 
asks  no  poetry;  but  it  is  defective  in  pathos.  The 
woman's  own  story  is  the  tamest  part  of  it ;  I  should  like 
you  to  remould  that :  it  too  much  resembles  the  young 
maid's  history;  both  had  been  in  service.  Even  the 
omission  would  not  injure  the  poem :  after  the  words 
"growing  wants,"  you  might,  not  unconnectedly,  intro- 
duce "look  at  that  little  chub"  down  to  "welcome 


S4  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

one."  And,  decidedly,  I  would  have  you  end  it  somehow 
thus, — 

*'  Give  them  at  least  this  evening  a  good  meal. 

[Oives  her  money. 

Now,  fare  thee  well ;  hereafter  you  have  taught  me 
To  give  sad  meaning  to  the  village  bells,"  etc., 

which  would  leave  a  stronger  impression  (as  well  as 
more  pleasingly  recall  the  beginning  of  the  Eclogue)  than 
the  present  commonplace  reference  to  a  better  world,  which 
the  woman  "must  have  heard  at  church."  I  should  like 
you  too  a  good  deal  to  enlarge  the  most  striking  part,  as 
it  might  have  been,  of  the  poem — "  Is  it  idleness  ?"  etc.  : 
that  affords  a  good  field  for  dwelling  on  sickness,  and 
inabilities,  and  old  age.  And  you  might  also  a  good 
deal  enrich  the  piece  with  a  picture  of  a  country  wedding. 
The  woman  might  very  well,  in  a  transient  fit  of  oblivion, 
dwell  upon  the  ceremony  and  circumstances  of  her  own 
nuptials  six  years  ago,  the  snugness  bf  the  bridegroom, 
the  feastings,  the  cheap  merriment,  the  welcoinings,  and 
the  secret  envyings  of  the  maidens;  then  dropping  all 
this,  recur  to  her  present  lot.  I  do  not  know  that  I  can 
suggest  anything  else,  or  that  I  have  suggested  anything 
new  or  material.  I  do  not  much  prefer  this  Eclogue  to 
the  last.  Both  are  inferior  to  the  former. 

"  And  when  he  came  to  shake  me  by  the  hand, 
And  spake  as  kindly  to  me  as  he  used, 
I  hardly  knew  his  voice — " 

is  the  only  passage  that  affected  me.  When  servants 
speak,  their  language  ought  to  be  plain,  and  not  much 
raised  above  the  common  else  I  should  find  fault  with 
the  pathos  of  this  passage, — 

"  And  when  I  heard  the  bell  strike  out, 
I  thought  (what  ?)  that  I  had  never  heard  it  toll 
So  dismally  before." 

I  like  the  destruction  of  the  martens'  old  nests  hugely, 
having  just  such  a  circumstance  in  my  memory.  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to  see  your  remaining  Eclogue,  if  not  too 


TO  SOUTHEY.  95 

much  trouble,  as  you  give  me  reason  to  expect  it  will  be 
the  second  best.     I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  some  more 
poetry  ;  though,  I  fear,  your  trouble  in  transcribing  will 
be  greater  than  the  service  my  remarks  may  do  them. 
Yours  affectionately,  C.  LAMB. 

I  cut  my  letter  short  because  I  am  called  off  to 
business 


LETTER  XXXVII.]  November  8,  1798. 

I  perfectly  accord  with  your  opinion  of  old  Wither ; 
Quarles  is  a  wittier  writer,  but  Wither  lays  more  hold  of 
the  heart.  Quarles  thinks  of  his  audience  when  he 
lectures ;  Wither  soliloquizes  in  company  from  a  full 
heart.  What  wretched  stuff  are  the  "  Divine  Fancies  " 
of  Quarles  !  Religion  appears  to  him  no  longer  valuable 
than  it  furnishes  matter  for  quibbles  and  riddles ;  he 
turns  God's  grace  into  wantonness.  Wither  is  like  an 
old  friend,  whose  warm-heartedness  and  estimable  qualities 
make  us  wish  he  possessed  more  genius,  but  at  the  same 
time  make  us  willing  to  dispense  with  that  want.  I 
always  love  Wither,  and  sometimes  admire  Quarles. 
Still  that  portrait  poem  is  a  fine  one ;  and  the  extract 
from  "  Shepherds'  Hunting "  places  him  in  a  starry 
height  far  above  Quarles.  If  you  wrote  that  review  in 
the  Critical  Review,  I  am  sorry  you  are  so  sparing  of 
praise  to  the  Ancient  Mariner e.  So  far  from  calling  it 
as  you  do,  with  some  wit,  but  more  severity,  a  "  Dutch 
Attempt,"  etc.,  I  call  it  a  right  English  attempt,  and  a 
successful  one,  to  dethrone  German  sublimity.  You  have 
selected  a  passage  fertile  in  unmeaning  miracles,  but 
have  passed  by  fifty  passages  as  miraculous  as  the 
miracles  they  celebrate.  I  never  so  deeply  felt  the 
pathetic  as  in  that  part, 

"  A  spring  of  love  gush'd  from  my  heart, 
And  I  bless'd  them  unaware." 

It  stung  me  into  high  pleasure  through  sufferings.     Lloyd 


96  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMR 

does  not  like  it ;  his  head  is  too  metaphysical,  and  youi 
taste  too  correct;  at  least  I  must  allege  something 
against  you  both,  to  excuse  my  own  dotage — 

"  So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seem'd  there  to  be  !" — etc.  etc. 

But  you  allow  some  elaborate  beauties  :  you  should  have 
extracted  'em.  The  Ancient  Marinere  plays  more  tricks 
with  the  mind  than  that  last  poem,  which  is  yet  one  of 
the  finest  written.  But  I  am  getting  too  dogmatical ; 
and  before  I  degenerate  into  abuse,  I  will  conclude  with 
assuring  you  that  I  am 

Sincerely  yours, 

0.  LAMB. 

I  am  going  to  meet  Lloyd  at  Ware  on  Saturday,  to 
return  on  Sunday.  Have  you  any  commands  or  com- 
mendations to  the  metaphysician?  I  shall  be  very 
happy  if  you  will  dine  or  spend  any  time  with  me  in 
your  way  through  the  great  ugly  city ;  but  I  know  you 
have  other  ties  upon  you  in  these  parts. 

Love  and  respects  to  Edith,  and  friendly  remembrances 
to  Cottle. 


LETTER  XXXVIII.]  November  28,  1798. 

I  can  have  no  objection  to  your  printing  "  Mystery  of 
God "  with  my  name,  and  all  due  acknowledgments  for 
the  honour  and  favour  of  the  communication  ;  indeed, 
'tis  a  poem  that  can  dishonour  no  name.  Now,  that  is 
in  the  true  strain  of  modern  modestovanitas.  .  .  .  But 
for  the  sonnet,  I  heartily  wish  it,  as  I  thought  it  was, 
dead  and  forgotten.  If  the  exact  circumstances  under 
which  I  wrote  could  be  known  or  told,  it  would  be  an 
interesting  sonnet ;  but  to  an  indifferent  and  stranger 
reader  it  must  appear  a  very  bald  thing,  certainly  inad- 
missible in  a  compilation.  I  wish  you  could  affix  a 
different  name  to  the  volume.  There  is  a  contemptible 


TO  SOUTHEY.  97 

book,  a  wretched  assortment  of  vapid  feelings,  entitled 
Pratt's  Gleanings,  which  hath  damned  and  impropriated 
the  title  for  ever.  Pray  think  of  some  other.  The 
gentleman  is  better  known  (better  had  he  remained 
unknown)  by  an  Ode  to  Benevolence,  written  and  spoken 
for  and  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Humane  Society,  who 
walk  in  procession  once  a  year,  with  all  the  objects  of 
their  charity  before  them,  to  return  God  thanks  for  giving 
them  such  benevolent  hearts. 

I  like  "  Bishop  Bruno,"  but  not  so  abundantly  as  your 
"  Witch  Ballad,"  which  is  an  exquisite  thing  of  its  kind. 

I  showed  my  "Witch"  and  "Dying  Lover"  to  Dyer 
last  night ;  but  George  could  not  comprehend  how  that, 
could  be  poetry  which  did  not  go  upon  ten  feet,  as  George 
and  his  predecessor  had  taught  it  to  do ;  so  George  read 
me  some  lectures  on  the  distinguishing  qualities  of  the 
Ode,  the  Epigram,  and  the  Epic,  and  went  home  to  illus- 
trate his  doctrine,  by  correcting  a  proof  sheet  of  his  own 
Lyrics.  George  writes  odes  where  the  rhymes,  like 
fashionable  man  and  wife,  keep  a  comfortable  distance  of 
six  or  eight  lines  apart,  and  calls  that  "observing  the 
laws  of  verse  ! "  George  tells  you,  before  he  recites,  that 
you  must  listen  with  great  attention,  or  you'll  miss  the 
rhymes.  I  did  so,  and  found  them  pretty  exact.  George, 
speaking  of  the  dead  Ossian,  exclaimeth,  "  Dark  are  the 
poet's  eyes  !"  I  humbly  represented  to  him  that  his  own 
eyes  were  dark,  and  many  a  living  bard's  besides,  and 
recommended  "Closed  are  the  poet's  eyes."  But  that 
would  not  do.  I  found  there  was  an  antithesis  between 
the  darkness  of  his  eyes  and  the  splendour  of  his  genius  ; 
and  I  acquiesced. 

Your  recipe  for  a  Turk's  poison  is  invaluable,  and  truly 
Marlowish.  .  .  .  Lloyd  objects  to  "shutting  up  the 
womb  of  his  purse  "  in  my  curse  (which,  for  a  Christian 
witch  in  a  Christian  country,  is  not  too  mild,  I  hope). 
Do  you  object  ?  I  think  there  is  a  strangeness  in  the 
idea,  as  well  as  "  shaking  the  poor  like  snakes  from  his 
door,"  which  suits  the  speaker.  Witches  illustrate,  as 

H 


98  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

fine  ladies  do,  from  their  own  familiar  objects,  and  stakes 
and  the  shutting  up  of  wombs  are  in  their  way.  I  don't 
know  that  this  last  charge  has  been  before  brought 
against  'em  nor  either  the  sour  milk  or  the  mandrake 
babe ;  but  I  affirm  these  be  things  a  witch  would  do  if 
she  could. 

My  Tragedy  will  be  a  medley  (as  I  intend  it  to  be  a 
medley)  of  laughter  and  tears,  prose  and  verse,  and  in 
some  places  rhyme,  songs,  wit,  pathos,  humour,  and,  if 
possible,  sublimity ;  at  least  it  is  not  a  fault  in  my  inten- 
tion if  it  does  not  comprehend  most  of  these  discordant 
atoms.  Heaven  send  they  dance  not  the  "Dance  of 
Death  !"  I  hear  that  the  Two  Noble  Englishmen  have 
parted  no  sooner  than  they  set  foot  on  German  earth ;  but 
I  have  not  heard  the  reason.  Possibly  to  give  moralists 
an  handle  to  exclaim,  "  Ah  me  !  what  things  are  perfect]" 
I  think  I  shall  adopt  your  emendation  in  the  "Dying 
Lover,"  though  I  do  not  myself  feel  the  objection  against 
"  Silent  Prayer." 

My  tailor  has  brought  me  home  a  new  coat  lapelled, 
with  a  velvet  collar.  He  assures  me  everybody  wears 
velvet  collars  now.  Some  are  born  fashionable,  some 
achieve  fashion,  and  others,  like  your  humble  servant, 
nave  fashion  thrust  upon  them.  The  rogue  has  been 
making  inroads  hitherto  by  modest  degrees,  foisting  upon 
me  an  additional  button,  recommending  gaiters ;  but  to 
come  upon  me  thus,  in  a  full  tide  of  luxury,  neither 
btcomes  him  as  a  tailor  nor  the  ninth  of  a  man.  My 
meek  gentleman  was  robbed  the  other  day,  coming  with 
his  wife  and  family  in  a  one-horse  shay  from  Hampstead. 
The  villains  rifled  him  of  four  guineas,  some  shillings  and 
hall-pence,  and  a  bundle  of  customers'  measures,  which 
they  swore  were  bank  notes.  They  did  not  shoot  him, 
and  when  they  rode  off  he  addrest  them  with  profound 
gratitude,  making  a  congee :  "  Gentlemen,  I  wish  you 
good-night,  and  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  you  that 
you  have  not  used  us  ill !"  And  this  is  the  cuckoo  that 
has  had  the  audacity  to  foist  upon  me  ten  buttons  on  a 


TO  SOUTHEY.  99 

6ide,  and  a  black  velvet  collar !  A  cursed  ninth  of  a 
scoundrel ! 

When  you  write  to  Lloyd,  he  wishes  his  Jacobin  cor- 
respondents to  address  him  as  Mr.  0.  L.  Love  and 
respects  to  Edith.  I  hope  she  is  well. 

Yours  sincerely,  C.  LAMB. 


XXXIX.  December  27,  1798. 

Dear  Southey — Your  friend  John  May  has  formerly 
made  kind  offers  to  Lloyd  of  serving  me  in  the  India 
House,  by  the  interest  of  his  friend  Sir  Francis  Baring, 
It  is  not  likely  that  I  shall  ever  put  his  goodness  to  tho 
test  on  my  own  account,  for  my  prospects  are  very  com- 
fortable ;  but  I  know  a  man,  a  young  man,  whom  he 
could  serve  through  the  same  channel,  and,  I  think, 
would  be  disposed  to  serve  if  he  were  acquainted  with 
his  case.  This  poor  fellow  (whom  I  .know  just  enough 
of  to  vouch  for  his  strict  integrity  and  worth)  has  lost 
two  or  three  employments  from  illness,  which  he  cannot 
regain ;  he  was  once  insane,  and,  from  the  distressful 
uncertainty  of  his  livelihood,  has  reason  to  apprehend  a 
return  of  that  malady.  He  has  been  for  some  time 
dependent  on  a  woman  whose  lodger  he  formerly  was, 
but  who  can  ill  afford  to  maintain  him  ;  and  I  know  that 
on  Christmas  night  last  he  actually  walked  about  the 
streets  all  night,  rather  than  accept  of  her  bed,  which 
she  offered  him,  and  offered  herself  to  sleep  in  the  kitchen; 
and  that,  in  consequence  of  that  severe  cold,  he  is  labour- 
ing under  a  bilious  disorder,  besides  a  depression  of  spirits, 
which  incapacitates  him  from  exertion  when  he  most  needs 
it.  For  God's  sake,  Southey,  if  it  does  not  go  against 
you  to  ask  favours,  do  it  now ;  ask  it  as  for  me  :  but  do 
not  do  a  violence  to  your  feelings,  because  he  does  noS 
know  of  this  application,  and  will  suffer  no  disappoint- 
ment. What  I  meant  to  say  was  this, — there  are  in  the 
India  House,  what  are  called  extra  clerks,  not  on  the 
establishment,  like  me,  but  employed  in  extra  business, 


100  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

by-jobs ;  these  get  about  i50  a  year,  or  rather  more,  but 
never  rise.  A  director  can  put  in  at  any  time  a  young 
man  in  this  office,  and  it  is  by  no  means  considered  so 
great  a  favour  as  making  an  established  clerk.  He  would 
think  himself  as  rich  as  an  emperor  if  he  could  get  such 
a  certain  situation,  and  be  relieved  from  those  disquietudes 
which,  I  do  fear,  may  one  day  bring  back  his  distemper. 

You  know  John  May  better  than  I  do,  but  I  know 
enough  to  believe  that  he  is  a  good  man.  He  did  make 
me  that  offer  I  have  mentioned,  but  you  will  perceive 
that  such  an  offer  cannot  authorise  me  in  applying  for 
another  person. 

But  I  cannot  help  writing  to  you  on  the  subject,  for 
the  young  man  is  perpetually  before  my  eyes,  and  I  shall 
feel  it  a  crime  not  to  strain  all  my  petty  interest  to  do 
him  service,  though  I  put  my  own  delicacy  to  the  question 
by  so  doing.  I  have  made  one  other  unsuccessful  attempt 
already.  At  all  events  I  will  thank  you  to  write,  for  I 
am  tormented  with  anxiety.  C.  LAMB. 


LETTKB  XL.  January  21,  1799. 

I  am  requested  by  Lloyd  to  excuse  his  not  replying  to 
a  kind  letter  received  from  you.  He  is  at  present  situated 
in  most  distressful  family  perplexities,  which  I  am  not  at 
liberty  to  explain,  but  they  are  such  as  to  demand  all 
the  strength  of  his  mind,  and  quite  exclude  any  attention 
to  foreign  objects.  His  bro;  her  Eobert  (the  flower  of  his 
family)  hath  eloped  from  the  persecutions  of  his  father, 
and  has  taken  shelter  with  me.  What  the  issue  of  his 
adventure  will  be,  I  know  not.  He  hath  the  sweetness 
of  an  angel  in  his  heart,  combined  with  admirable  firm- 
ness of  purpose ;  an  uncultivated,  but  very  original,  and 
I  think  superior,  genius.  But  this  step  of  his  is  but  a 
small  part  of  their  family  troubles. 

I  am  to  blame  for  not  writing  to  you  before  on  my 
own  account;  but  I  know  you  can  dispense  with  the 
expressions  of  gratitude,  or  I  should  have  thanked  you 


TO  SOUTHEY.  101 

before  for  all  May's  kindness.  He  has  liberally  supplied 
the  person  I  spoke  to  you  of  with  money,  and  had  pro- 
cured him  a  situation  just  after  himself  had  lighted  upon 
a  similar  one,  and  engaged  too  far  to  recede.  But  May's 
kindness  was  the  same,  and  my  thanks  to  you  and  him 
are  the  same.  May  went  about  on  this  business  as  if  it 
had  been  his  own.  But  you  knew  John  May  before  this, 
so  I  will  be  sileut. 

I  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  from  you  when  convenient. 
I  do  not  know  how  your  Calender  and  other  affairs  thrive; 
but  above  all,  I  have  not  heard  a  great  while  of  your 
"  Madoc  " — the  opus  magnum.  I  would  willingly  send 
you  something  to  give  a  value  to  this  letter ;  but  I  have 
only  one  slight  passage  to  send  you,  scarce  worth  the 
sending,  which  I  want  to  edge  in  somewhere  into  my 
play,  which,  by  the  way,  hath  not  received  the  addition 
of  ten  lines,  besides,  since  I  saw  you.  A  father,  old 
Walter  Woodvil  (the  witch's  protege),  relates  this  of  his 
son  John,  who  "fought  in  adverse  armies,"  being  a 
royalist,  and  his  father  a  parliamentary  man  : — 

M  I  saw  him  in  the  day  of  Worcester  fight, 
Whither  he  came  at  twice  seven  years, 
Und  >r  the  discipline  of  the  Lord  Falkland 
(His  nncle  by  the  mother's  side, 
WhG  gave  his  youthful  politics  a  bent 
Quite  from  the  principles  of  his  father's  house) ; 
There  did  I  see  this  valiant  Lamb  of  Mars, 
This  sprig  of  honour,  this  unbearded  John, 
This  veteran  in  green  years,  this  sprout,  this  Woodvil 
(With  dreadless  ease  guiding  a  fire-hot  steed, 
Which  seem'd  to  scorn  the  manage  of  a  boy), 
Prick  forth  with  such  a  mirth  into  the  field, 
To  mingle  rivalship  and  acts  of  war 
Even  with  the  sinewy  masters  of  the  art. 
You  would  have  thought  the  work  of  blood  had  been 
A  play-game  merely,  and  the  rabid  Mars 
Had  put  his  harmful  hostile  nature  off 
To  instruct  raw  youth  in  images  of  war, 
And  practice  of  the  unedged  players'  foils. 
The  rough  fanatic  and  blood-practised  soldiery 
Seeing  such  hope  and  virtue  in  the  boy, 


102  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Disclosed  their  ranks  to  let  him  pass  unhurt, 
Checking  their  swords'  uncivil  injuries, 
As  loth  to  mar  that  curious  workmanship 
Of  Valour's  beauty  portray'd  in  his  face." 

Lloyd  objects  to  "portray'd  in  his  face,"  do  you?  I 
like  the  line. 

I  shall  clap  this  in  somewhere.  I  think  there  is  a 
spirit  through  the  lines ;  perhaps  the  7th,  8th,  and  9th 
owe  their  origin  to  Shakspere,  though  no  image  is 
borrowed. 

He  says  in  Henry  the  Fourth — 

"  This  infant  Hotspur, 
Mars  in  swathing  clothes." 

But  pray  did  Lord  Falkland  die  before  Worcester  fight  ? 
In  that  case  I  must  make  bold  to  unclify  some  other 
nobleman. 

Kind  love  and  respects  to  Edith.  0.  LAMB. 


LETTER  XLL  March  15,  1799. 

Dear  Southey — I  have  received  your  little  volume,  for 
which  I  thank  you,  though  I  do  not  entirely  approve  of 
this  sort  of  intercourse,  where  the  presents  are  all  one 
side.  I  have  read  the  last  Eclogue  again  with  great 
pleasure.  It  hath  gained  considerably  by  abridgment, 
and  now  I  think  it  wants  nothing  but  enlargement.  You 
will  call  this  one  of  tyrant  Procrustes's  criticisms,  to  cut 
and  pull  so  to  his  own  standard ;  but  the  old  lady  is  so 
great  a  favourite  with  me,  I  want  to  hear  more  of  her ; 
and  of  "  Joanna  "  you  have  given  us  still  less.  But  the 
picture  of  the  rustics  leaning  over  the  bridge,  and  the 
old  lady  travelling  abroad  on  summer  evening  to  see  her 
garden  watered,  are  images  so  new  and  true,  that  I 
decidedly  prefer  this  "  Ruin'd  Cottage  "  to  any  poem  in 
the  book.  Indeed  I  think  it  the  only  one  that  will  bear 
comparison  with  your  "  Hymn  to  the  Penates,"  in  a 
former  volume. 

I  compare  dissimilar  things,  as  one  would  a  rose  and  a 


TO  SOUTHEY.  103 

star,  for  the  pleasure  they  give  us,  or  as  a  child  soon 
learns  to  choose  between  a  cake  and  a  rattle ;  for  dis- 
similars  have  mostly  some  points  of  comparison. 

The  next  best  poem,  I  think,  is  the  first  Eclogue  ;  'tis 
very  complete,  and  abounding  in  little  pictures  and 
realities.  The  remainder  Eclogues,  excepting  only  the 
"  Funeral,"  I  do  not  greatly  admire.  I  miss  one,  which 
had  at  least  as  good  a  title  to  publication  as  the  "  Witch," 
or  the  "  Sailor's  Mother."  You  call'd  it  the  "  Last  of 
the  Family."  The  "Old  Woman  of  Berkeley"  comes 
next ;  in  some  humours  I  would  give  it  the  preference 
above  any.  But  who  the  devil  is  Matthew  of  West- 
minster? You  are  as  familiar  with  these  antiquated 
monastics,  as  Swedenborg,  or,  as  his  followers  affect  to 
call  him,  the  Baron,  with  his  invisibles.  But  you  have 
raised  a  very  comic  effect  out  of  the  true  narrative  of 
Matthew  of  Westminster.  'Tis  surprising  with  how 
little  addition  you  have  been  able  to  convert,  with  so 
little  alteration,  his  incidents,  meant  for  terror,  into  cir- 
cumstances and  food  for  the  spleen.  The  Parody  is  not 
so  successful ;  it  has  one  famous  line,  indeed,  which 
conveys  the  finest  death-bed  image  I  ever  met  with  : — 

"  The  doctor  whisper'd  the  nurse,  and  the  surgeon  knew  what  he 
said." 

But  the  offering  the  bride  three  times  bears  not  the 
slightest  analogy  or  proportion  to  the  fiendish  noises 
three  times  heard !  In  "  Jaspar,"  the  circumstance  of 
the  great  light  is  very  affecting.  But  I  had  heard  you 
mention  it  before.  The  "Rose"  is  the  only  insipid 
piece  in  the  volume ;  it  hath  neither  thorns  nor  sweet- 
ness ;  and,  besides,  sets  all  chronology  and  probability  at 
defiance. 

"  Cousin  Margaret,"  you  know,  I  like.  The  allusions 
to  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  are  particularly  happy,  and 
harmonise  tacitly  and  delicately  with  old  cousins  and 
aunts.  To  familiar  faces  we  do  associate  familiar  scenes 
and  accustomed  objects :  but  what  hath  Apollidon  and 


104  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

his  sea-nymphs  to  do  in  these  affairs  1  Apollyon  I  could 
have  home,  though  he  stands  for  the  devil ;  but  who  ia 
Apollidou  1  I  think  you  are  too  apt  to  conclude  faintly, 
with  some  cold  moral,  as  in  the  end  of  the  poem  called 
"  The  Victory  "— 

"  Be  thou  her  comforter,  who  art  the  widow's  friend  ;" 

a  single  commonplace  line  of  comfort,  which  bears  no 
proportion  in  weight  or  number  to  the  many  lines  which 
describe  suffering.  This  is  to  convert  religion  into 
mediocre  feelings,  which  should  burn,  and  glow,  and 
tremble.  A  moral  should  be  wrought  into  the  body  and 
soul,  the  matter  and  tendency  of  a  poem,  not  tagged  to 
the  end,  like  a  "  God  send  the  good  ship  into  harbour," 
at  the  conclusion  of  our  bills  of  lading.  The  finishing  of 
the  "  Sailor  "  is  also  imperfect.  Any  dissenting  minister 
may  say  and  do  as  much. 

These  remarks,  I  know,  are  crude  and  unwrought, 
but  I  do  not  lay  much  claim  to  accurate  thinking.  I 
never  judge  system-wise  of  things,  but  fasten  upon  par- 
ticulars. After  all,  there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  book 
that  I  must,  for  time,  leave  unmentioned,  to  deserve  my 
thanks  for  its  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  the  friendly 
remembrances  implied  in  the  gift.  I  again  return  you 
my  thanks. 

Pray  present  my  love  to  Edith.  C.  L. 


LETTER  XLII.]  March  20,  1799. 

1  am  hugely  pleased  with  your  "  Spider,"  "  your  old 
freemason,"  as  you  call  him.  The  first  three  stanzas  are 
delicious ;  they  seem  to  me  a  compound  of  Burns  and 
Old  Quarles,  the  kind  of  home-strokes,  where  more  is  felt 
than  strikes  the  ear ;  a  terseness,  a  jocular  pathos,  which 
makes  one  feel  in  laughter.  The  measure,  too,  is  novel 
and  pleasing.  I  could  almost  wonder  Robert  Burns  iu 
his  lifetime  never  stumbled  upon  it.  The  fourth  stanza 
is  less  striking,  as  being  less  original.  The  fifth  falls 


TO  SOUTHEY.  105 

off.  It  has  no  felicity  of  phrase,  no  old-fashioned  phrase 
or  feeling. 

"  Young  hopes,  and  love's  delightful  dreams," 

savour  neither  of  Burns  nor  Quarles;  they  seem  more 
like  shreds  of  many  a  modern  sentimental  sonnet.  The 
last  stanza  hath  nothing  striking  in  it,  if  I  except  the 
two  concluding  lines,  which  are  Burns  all  over.  I  wish, 
if  you  concur  with  me,  these  things  could  be  looked  to. 
I  am  sure  this  is  a  kind  of  writing,  which  comes  tenfold 
better  recommended  to  the  heart,  comes  there  more  like 
a  neighbour  or  familiar,  than  thousands  of  Hamnels,  and 
Zillahs,  and  Madelons.  I  beg  you  will  send  me  the 
"  Holly  Tree,"  if  it  at  all  resemble  this,  for  it  must  please 
me.  I  have  never  seen  it.  I  love  this  sort  of  poems, 
that  open  a  new  intercourse  with  the  most  despised  of 
the  animal  and  insect  race.  I  think  this  vein  may  be 
further  opened.  Peter  Pindar  hath  very  prettily  apostro- 
phised a  fly ;  Burns  hath  his  mouse  and  his  louse ; 
Coleridge  less  successfully  hath  made  overtures  of  intimacy 
to  a  jackass,  therein  only  following,  at  unresembling 
distance,  Sterne,  and  greater  Cervantes.  Besides  these, 
I  know  of  no  other  examples  of  breaking  down  the 
partition  between  us  and  our  "poor  earth-born  com- 
panions." It  is  sometimes  revolting  to  be  put  in  a  track 
of  feeling  by  other  people,  not  one's  own  immediate 
thoughts,  else  I  would  persuade  you,  if  I  could  (I  am  in 
earnest),  to  commence  a  series  of  these  animals'  poems, 
which  might  have  a  tendency  to  rescue  some  poor 
creatures  from  the  antipathy  of  mankind.  Some  thoughts 
came  across  me  :  for  instance — to  a  rat,  to  a  toad,  to  a 
cockchafer,  to  a  mole.  People  bake  moles  alive  by  a 
slow  oven  fire  to  cure  consumption.  Rats  are,  indeed, 
the  most  despised  and  contemptible  parts  of  God's  earth. 
I  killed  a  rat  the  other  day  by  punching  him  to  pieces, 
and  feel  a  weight  of  blood  upon  me  to  this  hour.  Toads 
you  know  are  made  to  fly,  and  tumble  down  and  crush 
all  to  pieces.  Cockchafers  are  old  sport.  Then  again 


106  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

to  a  worm,  with  an  apostrophe  to  anglers,  those  patient 
tyrants,  meek  inflictors  of  pangs  intolerable,  cool  devils ; 
to  an  owl ;  to  all  snakes,  with  an  apology  for  their 
poison ;  to  a  cat  in  boots  or  bladders.  Your  own  fancy, 
if  it  takes  a  fancy  to  these  hints,  will  suggest  many 
more.  A  series  of  such  poems,  suppose  them  accompanied 
with  plates  descriptive  of  animal  torments,  cooks  roasting 
lobsters,  fishmongers  crimping  skates,  etc.  etc.,  would 
take  excessively.  I  will  willingly  enter  into  a  partner- 
ship in  the  plan  with  you :  I  think  my  heart  and  soul 
would  go  with  it  too — at  least,  give  it  a  thought.  My 
plan  is  but  this  minute  come  into  my  head ;  but  it  strikes 
me  instantaneously  as  something  new,  good,  and  useful, 
full  of  pleasure,  and  full  of  moral.  If  old  Quarles  and 
Wither  could  live  again,  we  would  invite  them  into  our 
firm.  Burns  hath  done  his  part. 

Poor  Sam.  Le  Grice  !  I  am  afraid  the  world,  and 
the  camp,  and  the  university,  have  spoilt  him  among 
them.  'Tis  certain  he  had  at  one  time  a  strong  capacity 
of  turning  out  something  better.  I  knew  him,  and  that 
not  long  since,  when  he  had  a  most  warm  heart.  I  am. 
ashamed  of  the  indifference  I  have  sometimes  felt  towards 
him.  I  think  the  devil  is  in  one's  heart.  I  am  under 
obligations  to  that  man  for  the  warmest  friendship,  and 
heartiest  sympathy  exprest  both  by  word  and  deed  and 
tears  for  me,  when  I  was  in  my  greatest  distress.  But  I 
have  forgot  that !  as,  I  fear,  he  has  nigh  forgot  the  awful 
scenes  which  were  before  his  eyes  when  he  served  the 
office  of  a  comforter  to  me.  No  service  was  too  m  ?an  or 
troublesome  for  him  to  perform.  I  can't  think  what  but 
the  devil,  "  that  old  spider,"  couli  have  suck'd  my  heart 
so  dry  of  its  sense  of  all  gratitude.  If  he  does  come  in 
your  way,  Southey,  fail  not  to  tell  him  that  I  retain  a 
most  affectionate  remembrance  of  his  old  friendliness, 
and  an  earnest  wish  to  resume  our  intercourse.  In  this 
I  am  serious.  I  cannot  recommend  him  to  your  society, 
because  I  am  afraid  whether  he  be  quite  worthy  of  it ; 
but  I  have  no  right  to  dismiss  him  from  my  regard.  He 


TO  SOUTHEY.  107 

was  at  one  time,  and  in  the  worst  of  times,  my  own 
familiar  friend,  and  great  comfort  to  me  then.  I  have 
known  him  to  play  at  cards  with  my  father,  meal-times 
excepted,  literally  all  day  long,  in  long  days  too,  to  save 
me  from  being  teased  by  the  old  man,  when  I  was  not 
able  to  bear  it. 

God  bless  him  for  it,  and  God  bless  you,  Southey. 

C.  L. 

LETTER  XLIIL]  April  20,  1799. 

The  following  is  a  second  extract  from  my  tragedy 
— that  is  to  be.  Tis  narrated  by  an  old  Steward  to 
Margaret,  orphan  ward  of  Sir  Walter  Woodvil.  .  .  . 
This  and  the  Dying  Lord  I  gave  you  are  the  only  ex- 
tracts I  can  give  without  mutilation.  ...  I  expect  you 
to  like  the  old  woman's  curse  : — 

Old  Steward. — One  summer  night,  Sir  Walter,  as  it  chanced, 
Was  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  avenue 
That  westward  fronts  our  house, 
Among  those  aged  oaks,  said  to  have  been  planted 
Three  hundred  years  ago 
By  a  neighbouring  Prior  of  the  Woodvil  name,  etc. 

This  is  the  extract  I  bragged  of  as  superior  to  that  I 
sent  you  from  Marlow :  perhaps  you  will  smile.  But  I 
should  like  your  remarks  on  the  above,  as  you  are  deeper 
witch-read  than  L 

Yours  ever,  0.  LAMB. 

£06.  Southey,  Esq., 

Mr.  Collie's,  Bookseller, 

High  Street,  Bristol. 


LETTER  XLIV.]  May  20,  1799. 

Dear  Southey — I  thank  you  heartily  for  your  intended 
presents,  but  do  by  no  means  see  the  necessity  you  are 
under  of  burthening  yourself  thereby.  You  have  read 
old  Wither's  Supersedeas  to  small  purpose.  You  object 
to  my  pauses  being  at  the  end  of  my  lines  ;  I  do  not  know 


108  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

any  great  difficulty  I  should  find  in  diversifying  or  chang- 
ing my  blank  verse ;  but  I  go  upon  the  model  of  Shak- 
epeare  in  my  Play,  and  endeavour  after  a  colloquial  ease 
and  spirit,  something  like  him.  I  could  as  easily  imitate 
Milton's  versification,  but  my  ear  and  feeling  would  reject 
it,  or  any  approaches  to  it,  in  the  drama.  I  do  not  know 
whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  that  witches  have  been  de- 
tected aforetimes  in  the  shutting  up  of  wombs.  I  cer- 
tainly invented  that  conceit,  and  its  coincidence  with 
fact  is  accidental,  for  I  never  heard  it.  I  have  not  seen 
those  verses  on  Colonel  Despard :  I  do  not  read  any 
newspapers.  Are  they  short  to  copy  without  much 
trouble  ?  I  should  like  to  see  them. 

I  just  send  you  a  few  rhymes  from  my  play,  the  only 
rhymes  in  it.  A  forest  liver  gives  an  account  of  his 
amusements : — 

What  sports  have  you  in  the  forest  ? 

Not  many, — some  few, — as  thus, 

To  see  the  sun  to  bed,  to  see  him  rise, 

Like  some  hot  amourist  with  glowing  eyes, 

Bursting  the  lazy  bauds  of  sleep  that  bound  him  ; 

With  all  his  fires  and  travelling  glories  round  him ;  etc. 

I  love  to  anticipate  charges  of  unoriginality  :  the  first 
line  is  almost  Shakspeare's  : — 

"  To  have  my  love  to  bed  and  to  arise." 

A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

I  think  there  is  a  sweetness  in  the  versification  not 
unlike  some  rhymes  in  that  exquisite  play,  and  the  last 
line  but  three  is  yours : 

"  An  eye 
That  met  the  gaze,  or  turn'd  it  knew  not  why." 

Rosamund's  Epistle. 

I  shall  anticipate  all  my  play,  and  have  nothing  to 
uhow  you.  An  idea  for  Leviathan :  Commentators  ou 
Job  have  been  puzzled  to  find  out  a  meaning  for  Levia- 
than. Tis  a  whale,  say  some ;  a  crocodile,  say  others. 
In  my  simple  conjecture,  Leviathan  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London  for  the  time 
being. 


TO  SOUTHEY.  109 

Eosamund  sells  well  in  London,  malgre'  the  non  revival 
of  it.  I  sincerely  wish  you  better  health,  and  bettei 
health  tc  Edith.  Kind  remembrances  to  her. 

C.  LAMB. 

My  sister  Mary  was  never  in  better  health  or  spirits 
than  now. 


LETTER  XLV.]  October  31,  1799. 

Dear  Southey — I  have  but  just  got  your  letter,  being 
returned  from  Herts,  where  I  have  passed  a  few  red-letter 
days  with  much  pleasure.  I  would  describe  the  county 
to  you,  as  you  have  done  by  Devonshire ;  but  alas  !  I  am 
a  poor  pen  at  that  same.  I  could  tell  you  of  an  old 
house  with  a  tapestry  bedroom,  the  "  Judgment  of  Solo- 
mon "  composing  one  pannel,  and  "  Actseon  spying  Diana 
naked "  the  other.  I  could  tell  of  an  old  marble  hall, 
with  Hogarth's  prints,  and  the  Roman  Csesars  in  marble 
hung  round.  I  could  tell  of  a  wilderness,  and  of  a  village 
church,  and  where  the  bones  of  my  honoured  grandam 
lie ;  but  there  are  feelings  which  refuse  to  be  translated, 
sulky  aborigines,  which  will  not  be  naturalised  in  another 
soil.  Of  this  nature  are  old  family  faces,  and  scenes  of 
infancy. 

I  have  given  your  address,  and  the  books  you  want, 
to  the  Arches ;  they  will  send  them  as  soon  as  they  can 
get  them,  but  they  do  not  seem  quite  familiar  to  their 
names.  I  have  seen  Gebor  !  Gebor  aptly  so  denominated 
from  Gebovish,  quasi  Gibberish.  But  Gebor  hath  some 
lucid  intervals.  I  remember  darkly  one  beautiful  simile 
veiled  in  uncouth  phrases  about  the  youngest  daughter 
of  the  Ark.  I  shall  have  nothing  to  communicate,  I 
fear,  to  the  Anthology.  You  shall  have  some  fragments 
of  my  play,  if  you  desire  them;  but  I  think  I  would 
rather  print  it  whole.  Have  you  seen  it,  or  shall  I  lend 
you  a  copy  ?  I  want  your  opinion  of  it. 

I  must  get  to  business;  so  farewell.  My  kind  re- 
membrances to  Edith.  0.  LAMB. 


110  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  XLVI.]  DecemUr  28,  1799. 

Dear  Manning — Having  suspended  my  correspondence 
a  decent  interval,  as  knowing  that  even  good  things  may 
be  taken  to  satiety,  a  wish  cannot  but  recur  to  learn 
whether  you  be  still  well  and  happy.  Do  all  things  con- 
tinue in  the  state  I  left  them  in  Cambridge  ? 

Do  your  night  parties  still  flourish  1  and  do  you  con- 
tinue to  bewilder  your  company  with  your  thousand  faces, 
running  down  through  all  the  keys  of  idiotism  (like  Lloyd 
over  his  perpetual  harpsichord),  from  the  smile  and  the 
glimmer  of  half-sense  and  quarter-sense,  to  the  grin  and 
hanging  lip  of  Betty  Foy's  own  Johnny  ?  And  does  the 
face-dissolving  curfew  sound  at  twelve  1  How  unlike  the 
great  originals  were  your  petty  terrors  in  the  postscript ! 
not  fearful  enough  to  make  a  fairy  shudder,  or  a  Lilli- 
putian fine  lady,  eight  months  full  of  child,  miscarry. 
Yet  one  of  them,  which  had  more  beast  than  the  rest,  I 
thought  faintly  resembled  one  of  your  brutifications.  But, 
seriously,  I  long  to  see  your  own  honest  Manning-face 
again.  I  did  not  mean  a  pun, — your  man's  face,  you 
will  be  apt  to  say,  I  know  your  wicked  will  to  pun.  I 
cannot  now  write  to  Lloyd  and  you  too;  so  you  must 
convey  as  much  interesting  intelligence  as  this  may  con- 
tain, or  be  thought  to  contain,  to  him  and  Sophia,  with 
my  dearest  love  and  remembrances. 

By  the  by,  I  think  you  and  Sophia  both  incorrect  with 
regard  to  the  title  of  the  play.  Allowing  your  objection 
(which  is  not  necessary,  as  pride  may  be,  and  is  in  real 
life  often,  cured  by  misfortunes  not  directly  originating 
from  its  own  acts,  as  Jeremy  Taylor  will  tell  you  a 
naughty  desire  is  sometimes  sent  to  cure  it ;  I  know  you 
read  these  practical  divines) — but  allowing  your  objec- 
tion, does  not  the  betraying  of  his  father's  secret  directly 


TO  MANNING.  Ill 

gpring  from  pride  1 — from  the  pride  of  wine,  and  a  full 
heart,  and  a  proud  over-stepping  of  the  ordinary  rules  of 
morality,  and  contempt  of  the  prejudices  of  mankind, 
which  are  not  to  bind  superior  souls — "as  trwt  in  the 
matter  of  secrets  all  ties  of  blood,  etc.  etc.,  keeping  of  pro- 
mises^ the  feeble  mind's  religion,  binding  our  morning 
knowledge  to  the  performance  of  what  last  nighfs  ignor- 
ance spake  " — does  he  not  prate,  that  "  Great  Spirits  " 
must  do  more  than  die  for  their  friend  1  Does  not  the 
pride  of  wine  incite  him  to  display  some  evidence  of 
friendship,  which  its  own  irregularity  shall  make  great  ? 
This  I  "know,  that  I  meant  his  punishment  not  alone  to 
be  a  cure  for  his  daily  and  habitual  pride,  but  the  direct 
consequence  and  appropriate  punishment  of  a  particular 
act  of  pride. 

If  you  do  not  understand  it  so,  it  is  my  fault  in  not 
explaining  my  meaning. 

I  have  not  seen  Coleridge  since,  and  scarcely  expect 
to  see  him, — perhaps  he  has  been  at  Cambridge. 

Need  I  turn  over  to  blot  a  fresh  clean  half -sheet, 
merely  to  say,  what  I  hope  you  are  sure  of  without  my 
repeating  it,  that  I  would  have  you  consider  me,  dear 
Manning,  Your  sincere  friend, 

C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  XLVII.]  December  1799. 

Dear  Manning — The  particular  kindness,  even  up  tc 
a  degree  of  attachment,  which  I  have  experienced  from 
you,  seems  to  claim  some  distinct  acknowledgment  on 
my  part.  I  could  not  content  myself  with  a  bare  remem- 
brance to  you,  conveyed  in  some  letter  to  Lloyd. 

Will  it  be  agreeable  to  you,  if  I  occasionally  recruit 
your  memory  of  me,  which  must  else  soon  fade,  if  you 
consider  the  brief  intercourse  we  have  had.  I  am  not 
likely  to  prove  a  troublesome  correspondent.  My  scrib- 
bling days  are  past.  I  shall  have  no  sentiments  to  com- 


i!2  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

municato,  but  as  they  spring  up  from  some  living  and 
worthy  occasion. 

I  look  forward  with  great  pleasure  to  the  performance 
of  your  promise,  that  we  should  meet  in  London  early  in 
the  ensuing  year.  The  century  must  needs  commence 
auspiciously  for  me,  that  brings  with  it  Manning's  friend- 
ship, as  an  earnest  of  its  after  gifts. 

I  should  have  written  before,  but  for  a  troublesome 
inflammation  in  one  of  my  eyes,  brought  on  by  night 
travelling  with  the  coach  windows  sometimes  up. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  shall  be  reserved  for  a  letter 
to  Lloyd.  I  must  not  prove  tedious  to  you  in  my  first 
outset,  lest  I  should  affright  you  by  my  ill-judged 
loquacity. 

I  am,  yours  most  sincerely,  C.  LAMB. 


CHAPTER  tt 

1800-1809. 
LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE,  MANNING,  AND  OTHERS. 

To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  XLVI1L]  January  2,  1800. 

DEAK  COLERIDGE — Now  I  write,  I  cannot  miss  this 
opportunity  of  acknowledging  the  obligations  myself,  and 
the  readers  in  general  of  that  luminous  paper,  the  Morn- 
ing Post,  are  under  to  you  for  the  very  novel  and  exquisite 
manner  in  which  you  combined  political  with  grammatical 
science  in  your  yesterday's  dissertation  on  Mr.  Wyndham's 
unhappy  composition.  It  must  have  been  the  death-blow 
to  that  ministry.  I  expect  Pitt  and  Grenville  to  resign. 
More  especially  the  delicate  and  Cottrellian  grace  with 
which  you  officiated,  with  a  ferula  for  a  white  wand,  as 
gentleman  usher  to  the  word  "  also,"  which  it  seems  did 
not  know  its  place. 

I  expect  Manning  of  Cambridge  in  town  to-night. 
Will  you  fulfil  your  promise  of  meeting  him  at  my  house  1 
He  is  a  man  of  a  thousand.  Give  me  a  line  to  say  what 
day,  whether  Saturday,  Sunday,  Monday,  etc.,  and  if 
Sara  and  the  Philosopher  can  come.  I  am  afraid  if  I 
did  not  at  intervals  call  upon  you,  I  should  never  see  you. 
But  I  lorget,  the  affairs  of  the  nation  engross  your  time 
and  your  mind. 

Farewell.  0.  L. 

i 


114  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMJi. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  XLIX.]  March  1,  1800. 

I  hope  by  this  time  you  are  prepared  to  say,  the 
"  Falstaff' s  letters  "  are  a  bundle  of  the  sharpest,  queerest, 
profoundest  humours,  of  any  these  juice -drained  latter 
times  have  spawned.  I  should  have  advertised  you,  that 
the  meaning  is  frequently  hard  to  be  got  at ;  and  so  are 
the  future  guineas,  that  now  lie  ripening  and  aurifying  in 
the  womb  of  some  undiscovered  Potosi ;  but  dig,  dig,  dig, 
dig,  Manning !  I  set  to,  with  an  unconquerable  propul- 
sion to  write,  with  a  lamentable  want  of  what  to  write. 
My  private  goings  on  are  orderly  as  the  movements  of 
the  spheres,  and  stale  as  their  music  to  angels'  ears. 
Public  affairs — except  as  they  touch  upon  me,  and  so 
turn  into  private, — I  cannot  whip  up  my  mind  to  feel 
any  interest  in.  I  grieve,  indeed,  that  War,  and  Nature, 
and  Mr.  Pitt,  that  hangs  up  in  Lloyd's  best  parlour, 
should  have  conspired  to  call  up  three  necessaries,  simple 
commoners  as  our  fathers  knew  them,  into  the  upper 
house  of  luxuries ;  bread,  and  beer,  and  coals,  Manning. 
But  as  to  France  and  Frenchmen,  and  the  Abbd  Sieyes 
and  his  constitutions,  I  cannot  make  these  present  times 
present  to  me.  I  read  histories  of  the  past,  and  I  live  in 
them ;  although,  to  abstract  senses,  they  are  far  less 
momentous  than  the  noises  which  keep  Europe  awake. 
I  am  reading  Burnet's  History  of  his  own  Times.  Did 
you  ever  read  that  garridous,  pleasant  history?  He  tells 
his  story  like  an  old  man  past  political  service,  bragging 
to  his  sons  on  winter  evenings  of  the  part  he  took  in 
public  transactions,  when  his  "  old  cap  was  new."  Full 
of  scandal,  which  all  true  history  is.  No  palliatives ; 
but  all  the  stark  wickedness,  that  actually  gives  the 
momentum  to  national  actors.  Quite  the  prattle  of  age, 
and  out- lived  importance.  Truth  and  sincerity  staring 
out  upon  you  perpetually  in  alto  relievo.  Himself  a  party 


TO  MANNING.  115 

man — he  makes  you  a  party  man.  None  of  the  cursed 
philosophical  Humeian  indifference,  so  cold,  and  unnatural, 
and  inhuman  !  None  of  the  cursed  Gibbonian  fine  writ- 
ing, so  fine  and  composite !  None  of  Dr.  Robertson's 
periods  with  three  members.  None  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  sage 
romarks,  all  so  apposite,  and  coming  in  so  clever,  lest  the 
reader  should  have  had  the  trouble  of  drawing  an  infer- 
ence. Burnet's  good  old  prattle  I  can  bring  present  to 
my  mind  :  I  can  make  the  revolution  present  to  me  :  the 
French'  revolution,  by  a  converse  perversity  in  my  nature, 
I  fling  as  far  from  me.  To  quit  this  tiresome  subject, 
and  to  relieve  you  from  two  or  three  dismal  yawns,  which 
I  hear  in  spirit,  I  here  conclude  my  more  than  commonly 
obtuse  letter ;  dull,  up  to  the  dulness  of  a  Dutch  com- 
mentator on  Shakspeare. 

My  love  to  Lloyd  and  to  Sophia.  C.  L 

LETTER  L.]  March  17,  1800. 

Dear  Manning — I  am  living  in  a  continuous  feast. 
Coleridge  has  been  with  me  now  for  nigh  three  weeks, 
and  the  more  I  see  of  him  in  the  quotidian  undress  and 
relaxation  of  his  mind,  the  more  cause  I  see  to  love  him, 
and  believe  him  a  very  good  man,  and  all  those  foolish 
impressions  to  the  contrary  fly  off  like  morning  slumbers. 
He  is  engaged  in  translations,  which  I  hope  will  keep 
him  this  month  to  come.  He  is  uncommonly  kind  and 
friendly  to  me.  He  ferrets  me  day  and  night  to  do 
something.  He  tends  me,  amidst  all  his  own  worrying 
and  heart-oppressing  occupations,  as  a  gardener  tends  his 
young  tulip.  Marry  come  up ;  what  a  pretty  similitude, 
and  how  like  your  humble  servant !  He  has  lugged  me 
to  the  brink  of  engaging  to  a  newspaper,  and  has  sug- 
gested to  me,  for  a  first  plan,  the  forgery  of  a  supposed 
manuscript  of  Burton,  the  anatomist  of  melancholy.  I 
have  even  written  the  introductory  letter ;  and  if  I  can 
pick  up  a  few  guineas  this  way,  I  feel  they  will  be  most 
refreshing,  bread  being  so  dear.  If  I  go  on  with  it,  I 


116  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

ivill  apprise  you  of  it,  as  you  may  like  to  see  my  things  ! 
and  the  tulip,  of  all  flowers,  loves  to  be  admired  most. 

Pray  pardon  me,  if  my  letters  do  not  come  very  thick. 
I  am  so  taken  up  with  one  thing  or  other,  that  I  cannot 
pick  out  (I  will  not  say  time,  but)  fitting  times  to  write 
to  you.  My  dear  love  to  Lloyd  and  Sophia,  and  pray 
split  this  thin  letter  into  three  parts,  and  present  them 
with  the  two  biggest  in  my  name. 

They  are  my  oldest  friends ;  but,  ever  the  new  friend 
driveth  out  the  old,  as  the  ballad  sings  !  God  bless  you 
all  three  !  I  would  hear  from  Lloyd  if  I  could. 

Flour  has  just  fallen  nine  shillings  a  sack :  we  shall 
be  all  too  rich. 

Tell  Charles  I  have  seen  his  mamma,  and  have  almost 
fallen  in  love  with  her,  since  I  mayn't  with  Olivia.  She 
is  so  fine  and  graceful,  a  complete  matron-lady-quaker. 
She  has  given  me  two  little  books.  Olivia  grows  a 
charming  girl — full  of  feeling,  and  thinner  than  she  was ; 
but  I  have  not  time  to  fall  in  love. 

Mary  presents  her  general  compliments.  She  keepa 
in  fine  health. 

Huzza  boys !  and  down  with  the  Atheists ! 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  LI.]  May  12,  1800. 

My  dear  Coleridge — I  don't  know  why  I  write, 
except  from  the  propensity  which  misery  has  to  tell  her 
griefs.  Hetty  died  on  Friday  night,  about  eleven  o'clock, 
after  eight  days'  illness.  Mary,  in  consequence  of  fatigue 
and  anxiety,  is  fallen  ill  again,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
remove  her  yesterday.  I  am  left  alone  in  a  house  with 
nothing  but  Hetty's  dead  body  to  keep  me  company. 
To-morrow  I  bury  her,  and  then  I  shall  be  quite  alone, 
with  nothing  but  a  cat,  to  remind  me  that  the  house  has 


TO  MANNING.  117 

been  full  of  living  beings  like  myself.  My  heart  is  quite 
sunk,  and  I  don't  know  where  to  look  for  relief.  Mary 
will  get  better  again,  but  her  constantly  being  liable  to 
such  relapses  is  dreadful ;  nor  is  it  the  least  of  our  evils 
that  her  case  and  all  our  story  is  so  well  known  around 
us.  We  are  in  a  manner  marked.  Excuse  my  troubling 
you,  but  I  have  nobody  by  me  to  speak  to  me.  I  slept 
out  last  night,  not  being  able  to  endure  the  change  and 
the  stillness ;  but  I  did  not  sleep  well,  and  I  must  come 
back  to  my  own  bed.  I  am  going  to  try  and  get  a  friend 
to  come  and  be  with  me  to-morrow.  I  am  completely 
shipwrecked.  My  head  is  quite  bad.  I  almost  wish 
that  Mary  were  dead.  God  bless  you  1  Love  to  Sara 
and  Hartley.  C.  LAMB. 

Monday. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LII.]  (Before  June)  1800. 

Dear  Manning — I  feel  myself  unable  to  thank  you 
sufficiently  for  your  kind  letter.  It  was  doubly  accept- 
able to  me,  both  for  the  choice  poetry  and  the  kind 
honest  prose  which  it  contained.  It  was  just  such  a 
letter  as  I  should  have  expected  from  Manning. 

I  am  in  much  better  spirits  than  when  I  wrote  last. 
I  have  had  a  very  eligible  offer  to  lodge  with  a  friend  in 
town.  He  will  have  rooms  to  let  at  Midsummer;  by 
which  time  I  hope  my  sister  will  be  well  enough  to  join 
me.  It  is  a  great  object  to  me  to  live  in  town,  where 
we  shall  be  much  more  private,  and  to  quit  a  house  and 
a  neighbourhood  where  poor  Mary's  disorder,  so  frequently 
recurring,  has  made  us  a  sort  of  marked  people.  We 
can  be  nowhere  private  except  in  the  midst  of  London. 
We  shall  be  in  a  family  where  we  visit  very  frequently ; 
only  my  landlord  and  I  have  not  yet  come  to  a  conclusion. 
He  has  a  partner  to  consult.  I  am  still  on  the  tremble, 


118  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

for  1  do  not  know  where  we  could  go  mto  lodgings  that 
would  not  be,  in  many  respects,  highly  exceptionable/ 
Only  God  send  Mary  well  again,  and  I  hope  all  will  be 
well !  The  prospect,  such  as  it  is,  has  made  me  quite 
happy.  I  have  just  time  to  tell  you  of  it,  as  I  know  it 
will  give  you  pleasure. — Farewell.  C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  LIII.]  1800. 

Dear  Manning — Olivia  is  a  good  girl,  and  if  you  turn 
to  my  letter  you  will  find  that  this  very  plea  you  set  up 
to  vindicate  Lloyd,  I  had  made  use  of  as  a  reason  why 
he  should  never  have  employed  Olivia  to  make  a  copy  of 
such  a  letter ! — a  letter  I  could  not  have  sent  to  my 

Enemy's  B ,  if  she  had  thought  proper  to  seek  me  in 

the  way  of  marriage.  But  you  see  it  in  one  view,  I  in 
another.  Reat  you  merry  in  your  opinion  !  Opinion  is  a 
species  of  property ;  and  thoflgh  I  am  always  desirous  to 
share  with  my  friend  to  a  certain  extent,  I  shall  ever  like 
to  keep  some  tenets,  and  some  property,  properly  my  own. 
Some  day,  Manning,  when  we  meet,  substituting  Corydou 
and  fair  Amaryllis,  for  Charles  Lloyd  and  Mary  Hayes, 
we  will  discuss  together  this  question  of  moral  feeling, 
"In  what  cases,  and  how  far,  sincerity  is  a  virtue?"  I 
do  not  mean  Truth,  a  good  Olivia-like  creature,  God 
bless  her,  who,  meaning  no  offence,  is  always  ready  to 
give  an  answer  when  she  is  asked  why  she  did  so  and  so ; 
but  a  certain  forward-talking  half-brother  of  hers,  Sin- 
cerity, that  amphibious  gentleman,  who  is  so  ready  to  perk 
up  his  obnoxious  sentiments  unasked  into  your  notice, 
as  Midas  would  his  ears  into  your  face,  uncalled  for.  But 
I  despair  of  doing  anything  by  a  letter  in  the  way  of  ex- 
plaining or  coming  to  explanations.  A  good  wish,  or  a  pun, 
or  a  piece  of  secret  history,  may  be  well  enough  that  way 
e  mveyed  ;  nay,  it  has  been  known,  that  intelligence  of  a 
turkey  hath  been  conveyed  by  that  medium,  without  much 
ambiguity.  Godwin  I  am  a  good  deal  pleased  with.  He 
is  a  very  well-behaved,  decent  man  ;  nothing  very  brilliant 


TO  COLERIDGE.  119 

about  him  or  imposing,  as  you  may  suppose;  quite  another 
.guess  sort  of  gentleman  from  what  your  anti-jacobin 
Christians  imagine  him.  I  was  well  pleased  to  find  he 
has  neither  horns  nor  claws;  quite  a  tame  creature,  I 
assure  you :  a  middle-sized  man,  both  in  stature  and  in 
understanding ;  whereas,  from  his  noisy  fame,  you  would 
expect  to  find  a  Briareus  Centimanus,  or  a  Tityus  tall 
enough  to  pull  Jupiter  from  his  heavens. 

I  begin  to  think  you  atheists  not  quite  so  tall  a 
Bpecies !  Coleridge  inquires  after  you  pretty  often.  I 
wish  to  be  the  Pandar  to  bring  you  together  again  once 
before  I  die.  When  we  die,  you  and  I  must  part ;  the 
sheep,  you  know,  take  the  right-hand  sign-post,  and  the 
goats  the  left.  Stript  of  its  allegory,  you  must  know  the 
sheep  are — I,  the  Apostles,  and  the  martyrs,  and  the 
Popes,  and  Bishop  Taylor,  and  Bishop  Horsley,  and 
Coleridge,  etc.  etc.  The  goats  are  the  atheists,  and 
adulterers,  and  fornicators,  and  dumb  dogs,  and  Godwin, 

and  M g,  aim  that  Thyestoean  crew !      Egad,  how 

my  saintship  sickens  at  the  idea !  You  shall  have  my 
play  and  the  Falstaff' s  Letters  in  a  day  or  two.  I  will 
write  to  Ll[oyd]  by  this  day's  Post. 

Pray,  is  it  a  part  of  your  sincerity  to  show  my  letters 
to  Lloyd  1  for,  really,  gentlemen  ought  to  explain  their 
virtues  upon  a  first  acquaintance,  to  prevent  mistakes. 

God  bless  you,  Manning.  Take  my  trifling  as  trifling; 
and  believe  me,  seriously  and  deeply, 

Your  well-wisher  and  friend, 

C.L. 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  LIV.]  June  22,  1800. 

By  some  fatality,  unusual  with  me,  I  have  mislaid 
the  list  of  books  which  you  want.  Can  you,  from 
memory,  easily  supply  me  with  another  1 

I  confess  to  Statins,  and  I  detained  him  wilfully,  out 


120  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

of  a  reverent  regard  to  your  style.  Statins,  they  tell 
me,  is  turgid.  As  to  that  other  Latin  book,  since  you 
know  neither  its  name  nor  subject,  your  wants  (I  crave 
leave  to  apprehend)  cannot  t»e  very  urgent.  Meanwhile, 
dream  that  it  is  one  of  the  lost  Decades  of  Livy. 

Your  partiality  to  me  has  led  you  to  form  an  erroneous 
opinion  as  to  the  measure  of  delight  you  suppose  me  to 
take  in  obliging.  Pray  be  careful  that  it  spread  no 
further.  'Tis  one  of  those  heresies  that  is  very  pregnant. 
Pray  rest  more  satisfied  with  the  portion  of  learning 
which  you  have  got,  and  disturb  my  peaceful  ignorance 
as  little  as  possible  with  such  sort  of  commissions. 

Did  you  never  observe  sm  appearance  well  known  by 
the  name  of  the  man  in  the  moon?  Some  scandalous 
old  maids  have  set  on  foot  a  reporf.  that  it  is  Endymion. 

Your  theory  about  the  first  awkward  step  a  man 
makes  being  the  consequence  of  learning  to  dance,  is  not 
universal  We  have  known  many  youths  bred  up  at 
Christ's,  who  never  learned  to  dance,  yet  the  world 
imputes  to  them  no  very  graceful  motions.  I  remember 
there  was  little  Hudson,  the  immortal  precentor  of  St. 
Paul's,  to  teach  us  our  quavers ;  but,  to  the  best  of  my 
recollection,  there  was  no  master  of  motions  when  we 
were  at  Christ's. 

Farewell,  in  haste.  C.  L. 


LETTER  LV.]  August  6,  1800. 

Dear  Coleridge — I  have  taken  to-day,  and  delivered  to 
L.  and  Co.,  Imprimis:  your  books,  viz.,  three  ponderous 
German  dictionaries,  one  volume  (I  can  find  no  more)  of 
German  and  French  ditto,  sundry  other  German  books 
unbound,  as  you  left  them,  Percy  s  Ancient  Poetry,  and 
one  volume  of  Anderson's  Poet-s.  I  specify  them,  that 
you  may  not  lose  any.  Secundo :  a  dressing  gown  (value, 
fivepence)  in  which  you  used  to  sit  and  look  like  a  con- 
juror, when  you  were  translating  Wallenstein.  A  case  of 
two  razors,  and  a  shaving-box  and  strap.  This  it  has 


TO  COLERIDGE.  121 

I 

cost  me  a  severe  struggle  to  part  with.  They  are  in  a 
brown -paper  parcel,  which  also  contains  sundry  papers 
and  poems,  sermons,  some  few  Epic  Poems, — one  about 
Cain  and  Abel,  which  came  from  Poole,  etc.  etc.,  and 
also  your  tragedy ;  with  one  or  two  small  German  books, 
and  that  drama  in  which  Got-fader  performs.  Tertio  :  a 
small  oblong  box  containing  all  your  letters,  collected 
from  all  your  waste  papers,  and  which  fill  the  said  little 
box.  All  other  waste  papers,  which  I  judged  worth 
sending,  are  in  the  paper  parcel  aforesaid.  But  you  will 
find^a^  your  letters  in  the  box  by  themselves.  Thus 
have  I  discharged  my  conscience  and  my  lumber-room  of 
all  your  property,  save  and  except  a  folio  entitled  Tyrrell's 
Bibliotheca  Politico,,  which  you  used  to  learn  your  politics 
out  of  when  you  wrote  for  the  Post,  mutatis  mutandis,  i.e., 
applying  past  inferences  to  modern  data.  I  retain  that, 
because  I  am  sensible  I  am  very  deficient  in  the  politics 
myself;  and  I  have  torn  up  (don't  be  angry,  waste  paper 
has  risen  forty  per  cent.,  and  1  can't  afford  to  buy  it)  all 
Buonaparte's  Letters,  Arthur  Young's  Treatise  on  Corn, 
and  one  or  two  more  light-armed  infantry>  which  I 
thought  better  suited  the  flippancy  of  London  discussion 
than  the  dignity  of  Keswick  thinking.  Mary  says  you 
will  be  in  a  passion  about  them,  when  you  come  to  miss 
them ;  but  you  must  study  philosophy.  Read  Albertus 
Magnus  de  Chartis  Amissis  five  times  over  after  phle- 
botomising,— 'tis  Burton's  recipe, — and  then  be  angry 
with  an  absent  friend  if  you  can. 

Sara  is  obscure.  Am  I  to  understand  by  her  letter, 
that  she  sends  a  kiss  to  Eliza  Buckingham  1  Pray  tell 
your  wife  that  a  note  of  interrogation  on  the  superscription 
of  a  letter  is  highly  ungrammatical :  she  proposes  writing 
my  name  Lambe  ?  Lamb  is  quite  enough.  I  have  had 
the  Anthology,  and  like  only  one  thing  in  it,  Lewti ;  but 
of  that  the  last  stanza  is  detestable,  the  rest  most  ex- 
quisite :  the  epithet  enviable  would  dash  the  finest  poem. 
For  God's  sake  (I  never  was  more  serious)  don't  make 
me  ridiculous  any  more  by  terming  me  gentle-hearted  in 


122  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

print,  or  do  it  in  better  verses.  It  did  well  enough  five 
years  ago  when  I  came  to  see  you,  and  was  moral  coxcomb 
enough  at  the  time  you  wrote  the  lines,  to  feed  upon  such 
epithets ;  but,  besides  that,  the  meaning  of  "  gentle  "  is 
equivocal  at  best,  and  almost  always  means  poor-spirited  ; 
the  very  quality  of  gentleness  is  abhorrent  to  such  vile 
trumpetings.  My  sentiment  is  long  since  vanished.  I 
hope  my  virtues  have  done  sucking.  I  can  scarce  think 
but  you  meant  it  in  joke.  I  hope  you  did,  for  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  believe  that  you  could  think  to  gratify  me 
by  such  praise,  fit  only  to  be  a  cordial  to  some  green-sick 
sonneteer. 

I  have  hit  off  the  following  in  imitation  of  old  English 
poetry,  which,  I  imagine,  I  am  a  dab  at.  The  measure 
is  immeasurable ;  but  it  most  resembles  that  beautiful 
ballad,  the  "  Old  and  Young  Courtier  ;"  and  in  its  feature 
of  taking  the  extremes  of  two  situations  for  just  parallel, 
it  resembles  the  old  poetry  certainly.  If  I  could  but 
stretch  out  the  circumstances  to  twelve  more  verses,  i.e., 
if  I  had  as  much  genius  as  the  writer  of  that  old  song,  I 
think  it  would  be  excellent.  It  was  to  follow  an  imita- 
tion of  Burton  in  prose,  which  you  have  not  seen.  But 
fate  "  and  wisest  Stewart "  say  No. 

I  can  send  you  200  pens  and  six  quires  of  paper 
immediately,  if  they  will  answer  the  carriage  by  coach. 
It  would  be  foolish  to  pack  'em  up  cum  multis  libris  et 
cceteris;  they  would  all  spoil.  I  only  wait  your  commands 
to  coach  them.  I  would  pay  five-and-forty  thousand 
carriages  to  read  W.'s  tragedy,  of  which  I  have  heard  so 
much  and  seen  so  little — only  what  I  saw  at  Stowey. 
Pray  give  me  an  order  in  writing  on  Longman  for 
Lyrical  Ballads.  I  have  the  first  volume,  and,  truth  to 
tell,  six  shillings  is  a  broad  shot.  I  cram  all  I  can  in,  to 
save  a  multiplying  of  letters, — those  pretty  comets  with 
swinging  tails. 

I'll  just  crowd  in,  God  bless  you  1  C.  LAMB. 

Wednesday  night 


TO  MANNING.  123 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LVI.l  August  1800. 

Dear  Manning — I  am  going  to  ask  a  favour  of  you, 
and  aui  at  a  loss  how  to  do  it  in  the  most  delicate 
manner.  For  this  purpose  I  have  been  looking  into 
Pliny's  Letters,  who  is  noted  to  have  had  the  best  grace 
in  begging  of  all  the  ancients  (I  read  him  in  the  elegant 
translation  of  Mr.  Melmoth),  but  not  finding  any  case 
there  exactly  similar  with  mine,  I  am  constrained  to  beg 
in  my  own  barbarian  way.  To  come  to  the  point  iben, 
and  hasten  into  the  middle  of  things :  have  you  a  copy 
of  your  Algebra  to  give  away1?  I  do  not  ask  it  for 
myself;  I  have  too  much  reverence  for  the  Black  Arts 
ever  to  approach  thy  circle,  illustrious  Trismegist !  But 
that  worthy  man,  and  excellent  Poet,  George  Dyer, 
made  me  a  visit  yesternight,  on  purpose  to  borrow  one ; 
supposing,  rationally  enough,  I  must  say,  that  you  had 
made  me  a  present  of  one  before  this ;  the  omission  of 
which  I  take  to  have  proceeded  only  from  negligence  ; 
but  it  is  a  fault.  I  could  lend  him  no  assistance.  You 
must  know  he  is  just  now  diverted  from  the  pursuit  of 
the  BELL  LETTERS  by  a  paradox,  which  he  has  heard 
his  friend  Frend  (that  learned  mathematician)  maintain, 
that  the  negative  quantities  of  mathematicians  were 
merce  nugai,  things  scarcely  in  rerum  naturd,  and  smack- 
ing too  much  of  mystery  for  gentlemen  of  Mr.  Frend's 
clear  Unitarian  capacity.  However,  the  dispute  once 
Bet  a-going,  has  seized  violently  on  George's  pericranick ; 
and  it  is  necessary  for  his  health  that  he  should  speedily 
come  to  a  resolution  of  his  doubts.  He  goes  about 
teasing  his  friends  with  his  new  mathematics  :  he  even 
frantically  talks  of  purchasing  Manning's  Algebra,  which 
shows  him  far  gone ;  for,  to  my  knowledge,  he  has  not 
been  master  of  seven  shillings  a  good  time.  George's 


124  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

pockets  and 's  brain  are  two  things  in  nature  which 

do  not  abhor  a  vacuum.  .  .  • .  Now,  if  you  could  step  in, 
in  this  trembling  suspense  of  his  reason,  and  he  should 
find  on  Saturday  morning,  lying  for  him  at  the  Porter's 
Lodge,  Clifford's  Inn  (his  safest  address),  Manning's 
Algebra,  with  a  neat  manuscription  in  the  blank  leaf, 
running  thus  "  FROM  THE  AUTHOR,"  it  might  save  his 
wits,  and  restore  the  unhappy  author  to  those  studies  of 
poetry  and  criticism  which  are  at  present  suspended,  to 
the  infinite  regret  of  the  whole  literary  world.  N.B. — 
Dirty  backs,  smeared  leaves,  and  dogs'  ears,  will  be 
rather  a  recommendation  than  otherwise.  N.B. — He 
must  have  the  book  as  soon  as  possible,  or  nothing  can 
withhold  him  from  madly  purchasing  the  book  on  tick. 
.  .  .  Then  shall  we  see  him  sweetly  restored  to  the 
chair  of  Longinus — to  dictate  in  smooth  and  modest 
phrase  the  laws  of  verse ;  to  prove  that  Theocritus 
first  introduced  the  Pastoral,  and  Virgil  and  Pope  brought 
it  to  its  perfection ;  that  Gray  and  Mason  (who  always 
hunt  in  couples  in  George's  brain)  have  shown  a  great 
deal  of  poetical  fire  in  their  lyric  poetry  ;  that  Aristotle's 
rules  are  not  to  be  servilely  followed,  which  George  has 
shown  to  have  imposed  great  shackles  upon  modern 
genius.  His  poems,  I  find,  are  to  consist  of  two  vols. — 
reasonable  octavo ;  and  a  third  book  will  exclusively 
contain  criticisms,  in  which  he  asserts  he  has  gone  pretty 
deejily  into  the  laws  of  blank  verse  and  rhyme — epic 
poetry,  dramatic  and  pastoral  ditto — all  which  is  to 
come  out  before  Christmas.  But,  above  all,  he  has 
touched  most  deeply  upon  the  Drama,  comparing  the 
English  with  the  modern  German  stage,  their  merits  and 
defects.  Apprehending  that  his  studies  (not  to  mention 
his  turn,  which  I  take  to  be  chiefly  towards  the  lyrical 
poetry)  hardly  qualified  him  for  these  disquisitions,  I 
modestly  inquired  what  plays  he  had  read  1  I  found  by 
George's  reply  that  he  had  read  Shakspeare,  but  that 
was  a  good  while  since  :  lie  calls  him  a  great  but  irregular 
genius,  which  I  think  to  be  an  original  and  just  remark. 


TO  MANNING.  125 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Massinger,  Ben  Jonson,  Shirley 
Marlowe,  Ford,  and  the  worthies  of  Dodsley's  Collection 
— he  confessed  he  had  read  none  of  them,  but  professed 
his  intention  of  looking  through  them  all,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  touch  upon  them  in  his  book.  So  Shakspeare, 
Otway,  and  I  believe  Rowe,  to  whom  he  was  naturally 
directed  by  Johnson's  Lives,  and  these  not  read  lately, 
are  to  stand  him  in  stead  of  a  general  knowledge  of  the 
subject.  God  bless  his  dear  absurd  head  ! 

By  the  by,  did  I  not  write  you  a  letter  with  some- 
thing about  an  invitation  in  it  ?  But  let  that  pass ;  I 
suppose  it  is  not  agreeable. 

N.B. — It  would  not  be  amiss  if  you  were  to  accom- 
pany your  present  with  a  dissertation  on  negative 
quantities.  G.  L. 


LETTER  LVIL]  1800. 

George  Dyer  is  an  Archimedes,  and  an  Archimagus, 
and  a  Tycho  Brahe,  and  a  Copernicus ;  and  thou  art  the 
darling  of  the  Nine,  and  midwife  to  their  wandering  babe 
also  !  We  take  tea  with  that  learned  poet  and  critic  on 
Tuesday  night,  at  half-past  five,  in  his  neat  library.  The 
repast  will  be  light  and  Attic,  with  criticism.  If  thou 
couldst  contrive  to  wheel  up  thy  dear  carcass  on  the 
Monday,  and  after  dining  with  us  on  tripe,  calves'  kid- 
neys, or  whatever  else  the  Cornucopia  of  St.  Clare  may 
be  willing  to  pour  out  on  the  occasion,  might  we  not 
adjourn  together  to  the  Heathen's — thou  with  thy  Black 
Back,  and  I  with  some  innocent  volume  of  the  Bell 
Letters,  Shenstone,  or  the  like  :  it  would  make  him  wash 
his  old  flannel  gown  (that  has  not  been  washed  to  my 
knowledge  since  it  has  been  his — Oh  the  long  time!) 
with  tears  of  joy.  Thou  shouldst  settle  his  scruples  and 
unravel  his  cobwebs,  and  sponge  off  the  sad  stun0  that 
weighs  upon  his  dear  wounded  pia  mater.  Thou  shouldst 
restore  light  to  his  eyes,  and  him  to  his  friends  and  the 
public.  Parnassus  should  shower  her  civic  crowns  upon 


126  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

thee  for  saving  the  wits  of  a  citizen  !  I  thought  I  saw  a 
lucid  interval  in  George  the  other  night;  he  broke  in 
upon  my  studies  just  at  tea-time,  and  brought  with  him 
Dr.  Anderson,  an  old  gentleman  who  ties  his  breeches' 
knees  with  packthread,  and  boasts  that  he  has  been  dis- 
appointed by  ministers.  The  Doctor  wanted  to  see  me  ; 
for  I  being  a  Poet,  he  thought  I  might  furnish  him  with 
a  copy  of  verses  to  suit  his  Agricultural  Magazine.  The 
Doctor,  in  the  course  of  the  conversation,  mentioned  a 
poem  called  the  "Epigoniad,"  by  one  Wilkie,  an  epic 
poem,  in  which  there  is  not  one  tolerable  good  line  all 
through,  but  every  incident  and  speech  borrowed  from 
Homer.  George  had  been  sitting  inattentive,  seemingly, 
to  what  was  going  on — hatching  of  negative  quantities — 
when,  suddenly,  the  name  of  his  old  friend  Homer  stung 
his  pericranicks,  and,  jumping  up,  he  begged  to  know 
where  he  could  meet  with  Wilkie's  works.  It  was  a 
curious  fact,  he  said,  that  there  should  be  such  an  epic 
poem  and  he  not  know  of  it ;  and  he  must  get  a  copy  of 
it,  as  he  was  going  to  touch  pretty  deeply  upon  the 
subject  of  the  Epic — and  he  was  sure  there  must  be  some 
things  good  in  a  poem  of  8000  lines !  I  was  pleased 
with  this  transient  return  of  his  reason  and  recurrence  to 
his  old  ways  of  thinking :  it  gave  me  great  hopes  of  a 
recovery,  which  nothing  but  your  book  can  completely 
insure.  Pray  come  on  Monday,  if  you  can,  and  stay 
your  own  time.  I  have  a  good  large  room  with  two 
beds  in  it,  in  the  handsomest  of  which  thou  shalt  repose 
a-nights,  and  dream  of  Spheroides.  I  hope  you  will 
understand  by  the  nonsense  of  this  letter  that  I  am  not 
melancholy  at  the  thoughts  of  thy  coming :  I  thought  it 
necessary  to  add  this,  because  you  love  precision.  Take 
notice  that  our  stay  at  Dyer's  will  not  exceed  eight 
o'clock  ;  after  which  our  pursuits  will  be  our  own.  But 
indeed  I  think  a  little  recreation  among  the  Bell  Letters 
and  poetry  will  do  you  some  service  in  the  interval  of 
severer  studies.  I  hope  we  shall  fully  discuss  with 
George  Dyer  whut  I  have  never  yet  heard  done  to  my 


TO  MANNING.  127 

satisfaction,  the  reason  of  Dr.  Johnson's  malevolent  stric- 
tures on  the  higher  species  of  the  Ode. 


LETTER  LVIII.]  [August  9,  1800.] 

Dear  Manning — I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  Sophia 
Lloyd's  good  fortune,  and  paid  the  customary  compli- 
ments to  the  parents.  Heaven  keep  the  new-born  infant 
from  star  blasting  and  moon  blasting,  from  epilepsy, 
marasmus,  and  the  devil !  May  he  live  to  see  many 
days,  and  they  good  ones ;  some  friends,  and  they  pretty 
regular  correspondents !  with  as  much  wit  and  wisdom 
as  will  eat  their  bread  and  cheese  together  under  a  poor 
roof  without  quarrelling  !  as  much  goodness  as  will  earn 
heaven.  Here  I  must  leave  off,  my  benedictory  powers 
failing  me. 

And  now,  when  shall  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  your  honest 
face -to -face  countenance  again?  —  your  fine  dogmatical 
sceptical  face  by  punch-light  1  Oh  !  one  glimpse  of  the 
human  face,  and  shake  of  the  human  hand,  is  better  than 
whole  reams  of  this  cold,  thin  correspondence;  yea,  of 
more  worth  than  all  the  letters  that  have  sweated  the 
fingers  of  sensibility,  from  Madame  Se'vigne'  and  Balzac 
to  Sterne  and  Shenstone. 

Coleridge  is  settled  with  his  wife  and  the  young 
philosopher  at  Keswick,  with  the  Wordsworths.  They 
have  contrived  to  spawn  a  new  volume  of  lyrical  ballads, 
which  is  to  see  the  light  in  about  a  month,  and  causes 
no  little  excitement  in  the  literary  world.  George  Dyer 
too,  that  good-natured  heathen,  is  more  than  nine  months 
gone  with  his  twin  volumes  of  ode,  pastoral,  sonnet,  elegy, 
Spenserian,  Horatian,  Akensidish,  and  Masonic  verse. 
Clio  prosper  the  birth  !  it  will  be  twelve  shillings  out  of 
somebody's  pocket.  I  find  he  means  to  exclude  "per- 
sonal satire,"  so  it  appears  by  his  truly  original  advertise- 
ment. Well,  God  put  it  into  the  hearts  of  the  English 
to  come  in  shoals  and  subscribe  to  his  poems,  for 


t'28  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

He  never  put  a  kinder  heart  into  flesh  of  man   than 
George  Dyer's  ! 

Now  farewell,  for  dinner  is  at  hand,  C.  L. 


LETTER  LIX.]  August  11,  1800. 

My  dear  fellow  (N.B.  mighty  familiar  o.'  ate  !)  for 
me  to  come  to  Cambridge  now  is  one  of  heaven's  impos- 
sibilities. Metaphysicians  tell  us,  even  it  can  work 
nothing  which  implies  a  contradiction.  I  can  explain 
this  by  telling  you  that  I  am  engaged  to  do  double  duty 
(this  hot  weather  !)  for  a  man  who  has  taken  advantage 
of  this  very  weather  to  go  and  cool  himself  in  "green 
retreats  "  all  the  month  of  August. 

But  for  you  to  come  to  London  instead ! — muse  upon 
it,  revolve  it,  cast  it  about  in  your  mind.  I  have  a  bed 
at  your  command.  You  shall  drink  rum,  brandy,  gin, 
aqua-vitae,  usquebaugh,  or  whiskey  a'  nights ;  and  for  the 
after-dinner  trick,  I  have  eight  bottles  of  genuine  port, 
which,  mathematically  divided,  gives  1^  for  every  day 
you  stay,  provided  you  stay  a  week.  Hear  John 
Milton  sing, 

"  Let  Euclid  rest  and  Archimedes  pause." 

Twenty-first  Sonnet. 
And  elsewhere, — 

"  What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light l  and  choice, 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wiue,2  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touch'd,  or  artful  voice 
Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air  ?  " 

Indeed  the  poets  are  full  of  this  pleasing  morality, — 
"  Veni  cito,  Domine  Manning  ! " 

Think  upon  it.     Excuse  the  paper ;  it  is  all  I  have. 

C.  LAMB. 

1  We  poets  generally  give  light  dinners. 

2  No  doubt  the  poet  here  alludes  to  port  wine  at  38s.  tl>» 
ten. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  129 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDQE. 

LETTER  LX.]  August  14,  1800. 

My  head  is  playing  all  the  tunes  in  the  world,  ringing 
such  peals  !  It  has  just  finished  the  "  Merry  Christ 
Church  Bells,"  and  absolutely  is  beginning  "  Turn  again, 
Whittington,"  Buz,  buz,  buz,  bum,  bum,  bum,  wheeze, 
wheeze,  wheeze,  fen,  fen,  fen,  tinky,  tinky,  tinky,  cr'annch. 
I  shall  certainly  come  to  be  condemned  at  last.  I  have 
been  drinking  too  much  for  two  days  running.  I  find 
my  moral  sense  in  the  last  stage  of  a  consumption,  and 
my  religion  getting  faint.  This  is  disheartening ;  but  I 
trust  the  devil  will  not  overpower  me.  In  the  midst  of 
this  infernal  larum,  Conscience  is  barking  and  yelping  as 
loud  as  any  of  them.  I  have  sat  down  to  read  over  again 
your  satire  upon  me  in  the  Anthology,  and  I  think  I  do 
begin  to  spy  out  something  like  beauty  and  design  in  it. 
I  perfectly  accede  to  all  your  alterations,  and  only  desire 
that  you  had  cut  deeper,  when  your  hand  was  in. 

In  sober  truth,  I  cannot  see  any  great  truth  in  the 
little  dialogue  called  "  Blenheim."  It  is  rather  novel  and 
pretty,  but  the  thought  is  very  obvious  and  is  but  poor 
prattle,  a  thing  of  easy  imitation.  Pauper  vult  videri 
et  est, 

In  the  next  edition  of  the  Anthology  (which  Phoebus 
avert,  and  those  nine  other  wandering  maids  also  !)  please 
to  blot  out  "gentle-hearted,"  and  substitute  drunken 
dog,  ragged  head,  seld-shaven,  odd-eyed,  stuttering,  or 
any  other  epithet  which  truly  and  properly  belongs  to 
the  gentleman  in  question.  And  for  Charles  read  Tom, 
or  Bob,  or  Richard  for  mere  delicacy.  Hang  you,  I  was 
beginning  to  forgive  you,  and  believe  in  earnest  that  the 
lugging  in  of  my  proper  name  was  purely  unintentional 
on  your  part,  when  looking  back  for  further  conviction, 
stares  me  in  the  face,  "Charles  Lamb  of  the  India 
House."  Now  I  am  convinced  it  was  all  done  in  malice, 
K 


130  LETTERS  OF  CHAELES  IAMB. 

heaped  sack-upon-sack,  congregated,  studied  malice.  You 
dog!  your  141st  page  shall  not  save  you.  I  own  I  waa 
ju>t  ready  to  acknowledge  that  there  is  a  something  not 
unlike  good  poetry  in  that  page,  if  you  had  not  run  into 
the  unintelligible  abstraction-fit  about  the  manner  of  the 
Deity's  making  spirits  perceive  his  presence.  No  created 
thing  alive  can  receive  any  honour  from  such  thin  show- 
box  attributes.  By  the  by,  where  did  you  pick  up  that 
scandalous  piece  of  private  history  about  the  angel  and 
the  Duchess  of  Devonshire  ]  If  it  is  a  fiction  of  your 
own,  why  truly  it  was  a  very  modest  one  for  you.  Now 
I  do  aifirm,  that  "  Lewti "  is  a  very  beautiful  poem.  I 
was  in  earnest  when  I  praised  it.  It  describes  a  silly 
species  of  one  not  the  wisest  of  passions.  Therefore  it 
cannot  deeply  affect  a  disenthralled  mind.  But  such 
imagery,  such  novelty,  such  delicacy,  and  such  versifica- 
tion never  got  into  an  Anthology  before.  I  am  only 
sorry  that  the  cause  of  all  the  passionate  complaint  is 
not  greater  than  the  trifling  circumstance  of  Lewti  being 
out  of  temper  one  day.  "Gaulberto"  certainly  has  con- 
siderable originality,  but  sadly  wants  finishing.  It  is, 
as  it  is,  one  of  the  very  best  in  the  book.  Next  to 
"  Lewti "  I  like  the  "  Raven,"  which  has  a  good  deal  of 
humour.  I  was  pleased  to  see  it  again,  for  you  once 
sent  it  me,  and  I  have  lost  the  letter  which  contained  it. 
Now  I  am  on  the  subject  of  Anthologies,  I  must  say  I 
am  sorry  the  old  pastoral  way  has  fallen  into  disrepute. 
The  gentry  which  now  indite  sonnets  are  certainly  the 
legitimate  descendants  of  the  ancient  shepherds.  The 
same  simpering  face  of  description,  the  old  family  face,  is 
visibly  continued  in  the  line.  Some  of  their  ancestors' 
labours  are  yet  to  be  found  in  Allan  Ramsay's  and  Jacob 
Tonson's  Miscellanies.  But  miscellanies  decaying,  and 
the  old  pastoral  way  dying  of  mere  want,  their  successors 
(driven  from  their  paternal  acres)  now-a-days  settle  and 
lie  upon  Magazines  and  Anthologies.  This  race  of  men 
are  uncommonly  addicted  to  superstition.  Some  of  them 
are  idolators,  and  worship  the  moon.  Others  deify 


TO  COLERIDGE.  131 

qualities,  as  Love,  Friendship,  Sensibility;  or  bare 
accidents,  as  Solitude.  Grief  and  Melancholy  have  their 
respective  altars  and  temples  among  them,  as  the 
heathens  builded  theirs  to  Mors,  Febris,  Pallor,  etc. 
They  all  agree  in  ascribing  a  peculiar  sanctity  to  the 
number  14.  One  of  their  own  legislators  affirm eth,  that 
whatever  exceeds  that  number  "  encroacheth  upon  the 
province  of  the  elegy" — vice  versa,  whatever  "cometh 
short  of  that  number  abutteth  upon  the  premises  of  the 
epigram."  I  have  been  able  to  discover  but  few  images 
in  their  temples,  which,  like  the  caves  of  Delphos  of  old, 
are  famous  for  giving  echoes.  They  impute  a  religious 
importance  to  the  letter  0,  whether  because  by  its  round- 
ness it  is  thought  to  typify  the  moon,  their  principal 
goddess,  or  for  its  analogies  to  their  own  labours,  all 
ending  where  they  began,  or  for  whatever  other  high  and 
mystical  reference,  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover, 
but  I  observe  they  never  begin  their  invocations  to  their 
gods  without  it,  except  indeed  one  insignificant  sect 
among  them,  who  use  the  Doric  A,  pronounced  like  Ah  ! 
broad,  instead.  These  boast  to  have  restored  the  old 
Dorian  mood. 

Now  I  am  on  the  subject  of  poetry,  I  must  announce 
to  you,  who  doubtless  in  your  remote  part  of  the  island 
have  not  heard  tidings  of  so  great  a  blessing,  that  George 
Dyer  hath  prepared  two  ponderous  volumes  full  of  poetry 
and  criticism.  They  impend  over  the  town,  and  are 
threatened  to  fall  in  the  Winter.  The  first  volume  con- 
tains every  sort  of  poetry,  except  personal  satire,  which 
Gev>rge,  in  his  truly  original  prospectus,  renounceth  for 
ever,  whimsically  foisting  the  intention  in  between  the 
price  of  his  book  and  the  proposed  number  of  subscribers. 
(If  I  can,  I  will  get  you  a  copy  of  his  handbill.}  He  has 
tried  his  vein  in  every  species  besides — the  Spenserian, 
Thomsonian,  Masonic,  and  Akensidish  more  especially. 
The  second  volume  is  all  criticism ;  wherein  he  demon- 
strates to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  literary  wor,.d,  in 
a  way  that  must  silence  all  reply  for  ever,  that  the 


132  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Pastoral  was  introduced  by  Theocritus,  and  polished  by 
Virgil  and  Pope ;  that  Gray  and  Mason  (who  always 
hunt  in  couples  in  George's  brain)  have  a  good  deal  of 
poetical  fire  and  true  lyric  genius;  that  Cowley  was 
ruined  by  excess  of  wit  (a  warning  to  all  moderns)  ;  that 
Charles  Lloyd,  Charles  Lamb,  and  William  Wordsworth, 
in  later  days,  have  struck  the  true  chords  of  poesy.  0 
George,  George !  with  a  head  uniformly  wrong,  and  a 
heart  uniformly  right,  that  I  had  power  and  might  equal 
to  my  wishes  :  then  I  would  call  the  gentry  of  thy  native 
island,  and  they  should  come  in  troops,  flocking  at  the 
sound  of  thy  prospectus  trumpet,  and  crowding  who  shall 
be  first  to  stand  in  thy  list  of  subscribers !  I  can  only 
put  twelve  shillings  into  thy  pocket  (which,  I  will  answer 
for  them,  will  not  stick  there  long),  out  of  a  pocket  almost 
as  bare  as  thine.  Is  it  not  a  pity  so  much  fine  writing 
should  be  erased?  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  began  to 
scent  that  I  was  getting  into  that  sort  of  style  which 
Longinus  and  Dionysius  Halicarnassus  aptly  call  "  the 
affected."  C.  L. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LXL]  August  22,  1800. 

Dear  Manning — You  needed  not  imagine  any  apology 
necessary.  Your  fine  hare  and  fine  birds  (which  are  just 
now  dangling  by  our  kitchen  blaze)  discourse  most 
eloquent  music  in  your  justification.  You  just  nicked 
my  palate.  For  with  all  due  decorum  and  leave  may  it 
be  spoken,  my  worship  hath  taken  physic  to-day,  and 
being  low  and  puling,  requireth  to  be  pampered.  Foh  ! 
how  beautiful  and  strong  those  buttered  onions  come  to 
my  nose !  For  you  know  we  extract  a  divine  spirit  of 
gravy  from  those  materials,  which,  duly  compounded 
with  a  consistence  of  bread  and  cream  (y'clept  bread- 
sauce),  each  to  each  giving  double  grace,  do  mutually 
illustrate  and  set  off  (as  skilful  gold  foils  to  rare  jewels) 


TO  MANNING.  133 

your  partridge,  pheasant,  woodcock,  snipe,  teal,  widgeon, 
and  the  other  lesser  daughters  of  the  ark.  My  friend- 
ship, struggling  with  my  carnal  and  fleshly  prudence 
(which  suggests  that  a  bird  a  man  is  the  proper  allotment 
in  such  cases),  yearneth  sometimes  to  have  thee  here  to 
pick  a  wing  or  so.  I  question  if  your  Norfolk  sauces 
match  our  London  culinaric. 

George  Dyer  has  introduced  me  to  the  table  of  an 
agreeable  old  gentleman,  Dr.  Anderson,  who  gives  hot 
legs  of  mutton  and  grape  pies  at  his  sylvan  lodge  at 
Isleworth ;  where,  in  the  middle  of  a  street,  he  has  shot 
up  a  wall  most  preposterously  before  his  small  dwelling, 
which,  with  the  circumstance  of  his  taking  several  panes 
of  glass  out  of  bed-room  windows  (for  air),  causeth  his 
neighbours  to  speculate  strangely  on  the  state  of  the 
good  man's  pericrauicks.  Plainly,  he  lives  under  the 
reputation  of  being  deranged.  George  does  not  mind 
this  circumstance ;  he  rather  likes  him  the  better  for  it. 
The  Doctor,  in  his  pursuits,  joins  agricultural  to  poetical 
science,  and  has  set  George's  brains  mad  about  the  old 
Scotch  writers,  Barbour.  Douglas's  ^neid,  Blind  Harry, 
etc.  We  returned  home  in  a  return  postchaise  (having 
dined  with  the  Doctor),  and  George  kept  wondering  anc 
wondering,  for  eight  or  nine  turnpike  miles,  what  was 
the  name,  and  striving  to  recollect  the  name,  of  a  poet 
anterior  to  Barbour.  I  begged  to  know  what  was 
remaining  of  his  works.  "There  is  nothing  extant  of 
his  works,  Sir ;  but  by  all  accounts  he  seems  to  have 
been  a  fine  genius  !"  This  fine  genius,  without  anything 
to  show  for  it,  or  any  title  beyond  George's  courtesy, 
without  even  a  name ;  and  Barbour,  and  Douglas,  and 
Blind  Harry,  now  are  the  predominant  sounds  in  George's 
pia  mater,  and  their  buzzings  exclude  politics,  criticism, 
and  algebra — the  late  lords  of  that  illustrious  lumber- 
i  Dom.  Mark,  he  las  never  read  any  of  these  books,  but 
id  impatient  till  he  reads  them  all  at  the  Doctor's  sug- 
gestion. Poor  Dyer !  his  friends  should  be  careful  what 
sparks  they  let  fall  into  such  inflammable  matter. 


]  34  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Could  I  have  my  will  of  the  heathen,  I  would  lock 
him  up  from  all  access  of  new  ideas ;  I  would  exclude  all 
critics  that  would  not  swear  me  first  (upon  their  Virgil) 
that  they  would  feed  him  with  nothing  but  the  old,  safe, 
familiar  notions  and  sounds  (the  rightful  aborigines  of 
his  brain) — Gray,  Akenside,  and  Mason.  In  these 
sounds,  reiterated  as  often  as  possible,  there  could  be 
nothing  painful,  nothing  distracting. 

God  bless  me,  here  are  the  birds,  smoking  hot !  All 
that  is  gross  and  unspiritual  in  me  rises  at  the  sight ! 

Avaunt  friendship,  and  all  memory  of  absent  friends  ! 

C.  LAMB. 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  LXII.  [August  or  September]  1800. 

Dear  Coleridge — Soon  after  I  wrote  to  you  last,  an 
offer  was  made  me  by  Gutch  (you  must  remember  him, 
at  Christ's ;  you  saw  him,  slightly,  one  day  with  Thomson 
at  our  house),  to  come  and  lodge  with  him,  at  his  house 
in  Southampton  Buildings,  Chancery  Lane.  This  was  a 
very  comfortable  offer  to  me,  the  rooms  being  at  a  reason- 
able rent,  and  including  the  use  of  an  old  servant,  besides 
being  infinitely  preferable  to  ordinary  lodgings  in  our  case, 
as  you  must  perceive.  As  Gutch  knew  all  our  story  and 
the  perpetual  liability  to  a  recurrence  in  my  sister's  dis- 
order, probably  to  the  end  of  her  life,  I  certainly  think 
the  offer  very  generous  and  very  friendly.  I  have  got 
three  rooms  (including  servant)  under  £34  a  year.  Here 
I  soon  found  myself  at  home ;  and  here,  in  six  weeks 
after,  Mary  was  well  enough  to  join  me.  So  we  are  once 
more  settled.  I  am  afraid  we  are  not  placed  out  of  the 
reach  of  future  interruptions.  But  I  am  determined  to 
take  what  snatches  of  pleasure  we  can  between  the  acts 
of  our  distressful  drama.  ...  I  have  passed  two  days  at 
Oxford,  on  a  visit  which  I  have  long  put  off,  to  Gutch's 


TO  COLERIDGE.  135 

family.  The  sight  of  the  Bodleian  Library,  and,  above 
all,  a  fine  bust  of  Bishop  Taylor,  at  All  Souls',  were  par- 
ticularly gratifying  to  me.  Unluckily,  it  was  not  a  family 
where  I  could  take  Mary  with  me,  and  I  am  afraid  there 
is  something  of  dishonesty  in  any  pleasures  I  take  without 
her.  She  never  goes  anywhere.  I  do  not  know  what  I 
can  add  to  this  letter.  I  hope  you  are  better  by  this 
time ;  and  I  desire  to  be  affectionately  remembered  to 
Sara  and  Hartley. 

I  expected  before  this  to  have  had  tidings  of  another 
little  philosopher.  Lloyd's  wife  is  on  the  point  of  favour- 
ing the  world. 

Have  you  seen  the  new  edition  of  Burns  ?  his  posthum- 
ous works  and  letters  ?  I  have  only  been  able  to  procure 
the  first  volume,  which  contains  his  life — very  confusedly 
and  badly  written,  and  interspersed  with  dull  pathological 
and  medical  discussions.  It  is  written  by  a  Dr.  Currie. 
Do  you  know  the  well-meaning  doctor  !  Alas,  ne  sutor 
ultra  crepidam  ! 

I  hope  to  hear  again  from  you  very  soon.  Godwin  is 
gone  to  Ireland  on  a  visit  to  Grattan.  Before  he  went  I 
passed  much  time  with  him,  and  he  has  showed  me  par- 
ticular attentions :  N.B.  A  thing  I  much  like.  Your 
books  are  all  safe  :  only  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary 
to  fetch  away  your  last  batch,  which  I  understand  are  at 
Johnson's,  the  bookseller,  who  has  got  quite  as  much 
room,  and  will  take  as  much  care  of  them  as  myself ;  and 
you  can  send  for  them  immediately  from  him. 

I  wish  you  would  advert  to  a  letter  I  sent  you  at 
Grassmere  about  Christabel,  and  comply  with  my  request 
contained  therein. 

Love  to  all  friends  round  Skiddaw.  C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  LXIII.]  August  26,  1800. 

How  do  you  like  this  little  epigram  ?  It  is  not  my 
writing,  nor  had  I  any  finger  in  it.  If  you  concur  with 
me  in  thinking  it  very  elegant  and  very  original,  I  shall 


136  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

be  tempted  to  name  the  author  to  you.     I  will  just  hinV 
that  it  is  almost  or  quite  a  first  attempt. 

HELEN. 

HIGH-BORN  Helen,  round  your  dwelling 
These  twenty  years  I've  paced  in  vain  t 

Haughty  beauty,  thy  lover's  duty 
Hath  been  to  glory  in  his  pain. 

High-born  Helen,  proudly  telling 

Stories  of  thy  cold  disdain  ; 
I  starve,  I  die,  now  you  comply, 

And  I  no  longer  can  complain. 

These  twenty  years  I've  lived  on  tears, 

Dwelling  for  ever  on  a  frown  ; 
On  sighs  I've  fed,  your  scorn  my  bread  ; 

I  perish  now  you  kind  are  grown. 

Can  I,  who  loved  my  beloved 

But  for  the  scorn  "  was  in  her  eye," 

Can  I  be  moved  for  my  beloved, 

When  she  "  returns  me  sigh  for  sigh  ?" 

In  stately  pride,  by  my  bed-side, 

High-born  Helen's  portrait's  hung  ; 
Deaf  to  my  praise,  my  mournful  lays 

Are  nightly  to  the  portrait  sung. 

To  that  I  weep,  nor  ever  sleep, 

Complaining  all  night  long  to  her, 
Helen,  grotvn  old,  no  longer  cold, 

Said,  "  You  to  all  men  I  prefer." 

By  the  by,  I  have  a  sort  of  recollection  that  some- 
body, I  think  you,  promised  me  a  sight  of  Wordsworth's 
Tragedy.  I  should  be  very  glad  of  it  just  now ;  for  I 
have  got  Manning  with  me,  and  should  like  to  read  it 
with  him.  But  this,  I  confess,  is  a  refinement.  Under 
any  circumstances,  alone,  in  Cold-Bath  prison,  or  in  the 
desert  island,  just  when  Prospero  and  his  crew  had  set 
off,  with  Caliban  in  a  cage,  to  Milan,  it  would  be  a  treat 
to  me  to  read  that  play.  Manning  has  read  it,  so  has 


TO  COLERIDGE.  137 

Lloyd,  and  all  Lloyd's  family ;  but  I  could  not  get  him 
to  betray  his  trust  by  giving  me  a  sight  of  it.  Lloyd  is 
sadly  deficient  in  some  of  those  virtuous  vices.  I  have 
just  lit  upon  a  most  beautiful  fiction  of  Hell  punishments 
by  the  author  of  Hurlothrumbo,  a  mad  farce.  The  inventor 
imagines  that  in  Hell  there  is  a  great  caldron  of  hot 
water,  in  which  a  man  can  scarce  hold  his  finger,  and  an 
immense  sieve  over  it,  into  which  the  probationary  soula 
are  put — 

"And  all  the  little  souls 
Pop  thro'  the  riddle  holes  !" 

George  Dyer  is  the  only  literary  character  I  am 
happily  acquainted  with.  The  oftener  I  see  him,  the 
more  deeply  I  admire  him.  He  is  goodness  itself.  If  I 
could  but  calculate  the  precise  date  of  his  death,  I  would 
write  a  novel  on  purpose  to  make  George  the  hero.  I 
could  hit  him  off  to  a  hair. 

George  brought  a  Dr.  Anderson  to  see  me.  The 
doctor  is  a  very  pleasant  old  man,  a  great  genius  for 
agriculture,  one  that  ties  his  breeches-knees  with  pack- 
thread, and  boasts  of  having  had  disappointments  from 
ministers.  The  doctor  happened  to  mention  an  epic 
poem  by  one  Wilkie,  called  the  Epigoniad,  in  which  he 
assured  us  there  is  not  one  tolerable  line  from  beginning 
to  end,  but  that  all  the  characters,  incidents,  etc.,  are 
verbally  copied  from  Homer.  George,  who  had  been 
sitting  quite  inattentive  to  the  Doctor's  criticism,  no 
sooner  heard  the  sound  of  Homer  strike  his  pericranicks, 
than  up  he  gets,  and  declares  he  must  see  that  poem 
immediately :  where  was  it  to  be  had  ?  An  epic  poem  of 
8000  lines,  and  he  not  hear  of  it !  There  must  be  some 
good  things  in  it,  and  it  was  necessary  he  should  see  it, 
for  he  had  touched  pretty  deeply  upon  that  subject  in 
his  criticisms  on  the  Epic.  George  has  touched  pretty 
deeply  upon  the  Lyric,  I  find;  he  has  also  prepared  a 
dissertation  on  the  Drama  and  the  comparison  of  the 
English  and  German  theatres.  As  I  rather  doubted  his 
competency  to  do  the  latter,  knowing  that  his  peculiar 


138  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

turn  lies  in  the  lyric  species  of  composition,  I  questioned 
George  what  English  plays  he  had  read.  I  found  that 
he  had  read  Shakspeare  (whom  he  calls  an  original,  but 
irregular,  genius) ;  but  it  was  a  good  while  ago  ;  and  he 
has  dipped  into  Rowe  and  Otway,  I  suppose  having  found 
their  names  in  Johnson's  Lives  at  full  length  ;  and  upon 
this  slender  ground  he  has  undertaken  the  task.  He 
never  seemed  even  to  have  heard  of  Fletcher,  Ford,  Mar- 
lowe, Massinger,  and  the  worthies  of  Dodsley's  collection  ; 
but  he  is  to  read  all  these,  to  prepare  him  for  bringing 
out  his  "Parallel"  in  the  Winter.  I  find  he  is  also 
determined  to  vindicate  poetry  from  the  shackles  which 
Aristotle  and  some  others  have  imposed  upon  it,  which 
is  very  good  natured  of  him,  and  very  necessary  just  now. 
Now  I  am  touching  so  deeply  upon  poetry,  can  I  forget 
that  I  have  just  received  from  Cottle  a  magnificent  copy 
of  his  Guinea  Alfred.  Four-and-twenty  books  to  read  in 
the  dog-days  !  I  got  as  far  as  the  Mad  Monk  the  first 
day,  and  fainted.  Mr.  Cottle's  genius  strongly  points 
him  to  the  Pastoral,  but  his  inclinations  divert  him  per- 
petually from  his  calling.  He  imitates  Southey,  as  Rowe 
did  Shakspeare,  with  his  "Good  morrow  to  ye;  good 
master  Lieutenant."  Instead  of  a  man,  a  woman,  a 
daughter,  he  constantly  writes,  one  a  man,  one  a  woman, 
one  his  daughter.  Instead  of  the  king,  the  hero,  he  con- 
stantly writes,  he  the  king,  he  the  hero ;  two  flowers  of 
rhetoric,  palpably  from  the  "Joan."  But  Mr.  Cottle 
soars  a  higher  pitch  :  and  when  he  is  original,  it  is  in  a 
most  original  way  indeed.  His  terrific  scenes  are  inde- 
fatigable. Serpents,  asps,  spiders,  ghosts,  dead  bodies, 
staircases  made  of  nothing,  with  adders'  tongues  for 
bannisters.  What  a  brain  he  must  have  !  He  puts  as 
many  plums  in  his  pudding  as  my  grandmother  used  to 
do ; — and  then  his  emerging  from  Hell's  horrors  into 
light,  and  treading  on  pure  flats  of  this  earth — for  twenty- 
three  books  together !  C.  L. 


TO  MANNING.  139 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LXIV.]  OctoUr  5,  1800. 

C.  L.'s  moral  sense  presents  her  compliments  to 
Doctor  Manning,  is  very  thankful  for  his  medical  advice, 
but  is  happy  to  add  that  her  disorder  has  died  of  itself. 

Dr.  Manning,  Coleridge  has  left  us,  to  go  into  the 
North,  on  a  visit  to  Wordsworth.  With  him  have 
flown  all  my  splendid  prospects  of  engagement  with  the 
Morning  Post,  all  my  visionary  guineas,  the  deceitful 
wages  of  unborn  scandal.  In  truth,  I  wonder  you  took 
it  up  so  seriously.  All  my  intention  was  but  to  make  a 
little  sport  with  such  public  and  fair  game  as  Mr.  Pitt, 
Mr.  Wilberforce,  Mrs.  Fitzherbert,  the  Devil,  etc. — 
gentry  dipped  in  Styx  all  over,  whom  no  paper-javelin- 
lings  can  touch.  To  have  made  free  with  these  cattle 
where  was  the  harm  ?  'twould  have  been  but  giving  a 
polish  to  lamp-black,  not  nigrifying  a  negro  primarily. 
After  all,  I  cannot  but  regret  my  involuntary  virtue. 
Damn  virtue  that's  thrust  upon  us ;  it  behaves  itself 
with  such  constraint,  till  conscience  opens  the  window 
and  lets  out  the  goose.  I  had  struck  off  two  imitations 
of  Burton,  quite  abstracted  from  any  modern  allusions, 
which  it  was  my  intent  only  to  lug  in  from  time  to  time 
to  make  'em  popular. 

Stuart  has  got  these,  with  an  introductory  letter  ; 
but,  not  hearing  from  him,  I  have  ceased  from  my 
labours,  but  I  write  to  him  to-day  to  get  a  final  answer. 
I  am  afraid  they  won't  do  for  a  paper.  Burton  is  a 
scarce  gentleman,  not  much  known,  else  I  had  done  'em 
pretty  well. 

I  have  also  hit  off"  a  few  lines  in  the  name  of  Burton, 
being  a  "  Conceit  of  Diabolic  Possession."  Burton  was 
a  man  often  assailed  by  deepest  melancholy,  and  at  other 
times  much  given  to  laughing  and  jesting,  as  is  the  way 
with  melancholy  men.  I  will  send  them  to  you :  they 


140  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

were  almost  extempore,  and  no  great  things ;  but  you 
will  indulge  them.  Robert  Lloyd  is  come  to  town. 
Priscilla  meditates  going  to  see  Pizarro  at  Drury  Lane 
to-night  (from  her  uncle's),  under  cover  of  coming  to  dine 
with  me  .  .  .  heu  tempora  /  heu  mores  ! — I  have  barely 
time  to  finish,  as  I  expect  her  and  Robin  every  minute. 
— Yours  as  usual.  C.  L. 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  LXV.]  October  9,  1800. 

I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  the  death  of  Amos  Cottle. 
I  paid  a  solemn  visit  of  condolence  to  his  brother,  accom- 
panied by  George  Dyer,  of  burlesque  memory.  I  went, 
trembling  to  see  poor  Cottle  so  immediately  upon  the 
event.  He  was  in  black ;  and  his  younger  brother  was 
also  in  black.  Everything  wore  an  aspect  suitable  to  the 
respect  due  to  the  freshly  dead.  For  some  time  after  our 
entrance,  nobody  spake  till  George  modestly  put  in  a 
question,  whether  Alfred  was  likely  to  sell.  This  was 
Lethe  to  Cottle,  and  his  poor  face,  wet  with  tears,  and 
his  kind  eye  brightened  up  in  a  moment.  Now  I  felt  it 
was  my  cue  to  speak.  I  had  to  thank  him  for  a  present 
of  a  magnificent  copy,  and  had  promised  to  send  him  my 
remarks, — the  least  thing  I  could  do ;  so  I  ventured  to 
suggest,  that  I  perceived  a  considerable  improvement  he 
had  made  in  his  first  book  since  the  state  in  which  he 
first  read  it  to  me.  Joseph,  who  till  now  had  sat  with 
his  knees  cowering  in  by  the  fireplace,  wheeled  about,  and 
with  great  difficulty  of  body  shifted  the  same  round  to 
the  corner  of  a  table  where  I  was  sitting,  and  first  station- 
ing one  thigh  over  the  other,  which  is  his  sedentary  mood, 
and  placidly  fixing  his  benevolent  face  right  against 
mine,  waited  my  observations.  At  that  moment  it  came 
strongly  into  my  mind,  that  I  had  got  Uncle  Toby  before 
me,  he  looked  so  kind  and  so  good.  I  could  not  say  an 


TO  COLERIDGE.  HI 

unkind  thing  of  Alfred.  So  I  set  my  rremory  to  work 
to  recollect  what  was  the  name  of  Alfred's  Queen,  and 
with  some  adroitness  recalled  the  well-known  sound  to 
Cottle's  ears  of  Alswitha.  At  that  moment  I  could  per- 
ceive that  Cottle  had  forgot  his  brother  was  so  lately 
become  a  blessed  spirit.  In  the  language  of  mathemati- 
cians the  author  was  as  9,  the  brother  as  1.  I  felt  my 
cue,  and  strong  pity  working  at  the  root,  I  went  to  work, 
and  beslabber'd  Alfred  with  most  unqualified  praise,  or 
only  qualifying  my  praise  by  the  occasional  politic  inter- 
position of  an  exception  taken  against  trivial  faults,  slips, 
and  human  imperfections,  which,  by  removing  the  appear- 
ance of  insincerity,  did  but  in  truth  heighten  the  relish. 
Perhaps  I  might  have  spared  that  refinement,  for  Joseph 
was  in  a  humour  to  hope  and  believe  all  things.  What 
I  said  was  beautifully  supported,  corroborated,  and  con- 
firmed by  the  stupidity  of  his  brother  on  my  left  hand, 
and  by  George  on  my  right,  who  has  an  utter  incapacity 
of  comprehending  that  there  can  be  anything  bad  in 
poetry.  All  poems  are  good  poems  to  George ;  all  men 
are  fine  geniuses.  So  what  with  my  actual  memory,  of 
which  I  made  the  most,  and  Cottle's  own  helping  me  out, 
for  I  really  had  forgotten  a  good  deal  of  Alfred,  I  made 
shift  to  discuss  the  most  essential  parts  entirely  to  the 
satisfaction  of  its  author,  who  repeatedly  declared  that  he 
loved  nothing  better  than  candid  criticism.  Was  I  a 
candid  grayhound  now  for  all  this  1  or  did  I  do  right  ?  I 
believe  I  did.  The  effect  was  luscious  to  my  conscience. 
For  all  the  rest  of  the  evening  Amos  was  no  more  heard 
of,  till  George  revived  the  subject  by  inquiring  whether 
some  account  should  not  be  drawn  up  by  the  friends  of 
the  deceased  to  be  inserted  in  Phillips's  Monthly  Obituary; 
adding,  that  Amos  was  estimable  both  for  his  head  and 
heart,  and  would  have  made  a  fine  poet  if  he  had  lived. 
To  the  expediency  of  this  measure  Cottle  fully  assented, 
but  could  not  help  adding  that  he  always  thought  that 
the  qualities  of  his  brother's  heart  exceeded  those  of  his 
bead.  I  believe  his  brother,  when  living,  had  formed 


142  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

precisely  the  same  idea  of  him ;  and  I  apprehend  the 
world  will  assent  to  both  judgments.  I  rather  guess  that 
the  Brothers  were  poetical  rivals.  I  judged  so  wheo  I 
saw  them  together.  Poor  Cottle,  I  must  leave  him,  after 
his  short  dream,  to  muse  again  upon  his  poor  brother,  for 
whom  I  am  sure  in  secret  he  will  yet  shed  many  a  tear. 
Now  send  me  in  return  some  Greta  news.  C.  L. 


LETTER  LXVL]  October  13,  1800. 

Dear  Wordsworth — I  have  not  forgot  your  commissions. 
But  the  truth  is  (and  why  should  I  not  confess  it  T)  I 
am  not  plethorically  abounding  in  cash  at  this  present. 
Merit,  God  knows,  is  very  little  rewarded  ;  but  it  doea 
not  become  me  to  speak  of  myself.  My  motto  is  "  con- 
tented with  little,  yet  wishing  for  more."  Now,  the 
books  you  wish  for  would  require  some  pounds,  which,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  I  have  not  by  me ;  so  I  will  say  at  once, 
if  you  will  give  me  a  draft  upon  your  town  banker  for 
any  sum  you  propose  to  lay  out,  I  will  dispose  of  it  to  the 
very  best  of  my  skill  in  choice  old  books,  such  as  my  own 
soul  loveth.  In  fact,  I  have  been  waiting  for  the  liquida- 
tion of  a  debt  to  enable  myself  to  set  about  your  commis- 
sion handsomely ;  for  it  is  a  scurvy  thing  to  cry,  "  Give 
me  the  money  first,"  and  I  am  the  first  of  the  family  of 
the  Lambs  that  have  done  it  for  many  centuries  ;  but  the 
debt  remains  as  it  was,  and  my  old  friend  that  I  accom- 
modated has  generously  forgot  it !  The  books  which  you 
want,  I  calculate  at  about  £8.  Ben  Jonson  is  a  guinea 
book.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  in  folio,  the  right  folio,  not 
now  to  be  met  with ;  the  octavos  are  about  £3.  As  to 
any  other  dramatists,  I  do  not  know  where  to  find  them, 
except  what  are  in  Dodsley's  Old  Plays,  wHch  are  about 
«£3  also.  Massinger  I  never  saw  but  at  ore  shop,  and  it 
IB  now  gone ;  but  one  of  the  editions  of  Didsley  contain! 


TO  MANNING.  143 

about  a  fourth  (the  best)  of  his  plays.  Congreve,  and 
the  rest  of  King  Charles's  moralists,  are  cheap  and  acces- 
sible. The  works  on  Ireland  I  will  inquire  after  ;  but  I 
fear  Spenser's  is  not  to  be  had  apart  from  his  poems ;  I 
never  saw  it.  But  you  may  depend  upon  my  sparing  no 
pains  to  furnish  you  as  complete  a  library  of  old  poets  and 
dramatists  as  will  be  prudent  to  buy ;  for,  I  suppose  you 
do  not  include  the  £20  edition  of  Hamlet,  single  play, 
which  Keinble  has.  Marlowe's  plays  and  poems  are 
totally  vanished ;  only  one  edition  of  Dodsley  retains  one, 
and  the  other  two  of  his  plays :  but  John  Ford  is  the 
man  after  Shakspeare.  Let  me  know  your  will  and 
pleasure  soon,  for  I  have  observed,  next  to  the  pleasure 
of  buying  a  bargain  for  one's  self,  is  the  pleasure  of  per- 
suading a  friend  to  buy  it.  It  tickles  one  with  the  image 
of  an  imprudency,  without  the  penalty  usually  annexed. 

C.  LAMB. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LXVIL]  October  16,  1800. 

Dear  Manning — Had  you  written  one  week  before  you 
did,  I  certainly  should  have  obeyed  your  injunction ;  you 
should  have  seen  me  before  my  letter.  I  will  explain  to 
you  my  situation.  There  are  six  of  us  in  one  department. 
Two  of  us  (within  these  four  days)  are  confined  with 
severe  fevers ;  and  two  more,  who  belong  to  the  Tower 
Militia,  expect  to  have  marching  orders  on  Friday.  Now 
six  are  absolutely  necessary.  I  have  already  asked  and 
obtained  two  young  hands  to  supply  the  loss  of  the 
feverites.  And,  with  the  other  prospect  before  me,  you 
may  believe  I  cannot  decently  ask  leave  of  absence  for 
myself.  All  I  can  promise  (and  I  do  promise,  with  the 
sincerity  of  St.  Peter,  and  the  contrition  of  sinner  Peter 
if  I  fail)  that  I  will  come  tJte  very  first  spare  week,  and 
go  nowhere  till  I  have  been  at  Cambridge.  No  matter 


144  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

if  you  are  in  a  state  of  pupilage  when  I  come ;  for  I  cafi 
employ  myself  iu  Cambridge  very  pleasantly  in  the  morn- 
ings. Are  there  not  libraries,  halls,  colleges,  books, 
pictures,  statues  1  I  wish  you  had  made  London  in  your 
way.  There  is  an  exhibition  quite  uncommon  in  Europe, 
which  could  not  have  escaped  your  genius, — a  live  rattle- 
snake, ten  feet  in  length,  and  the  thickness  of  a  big  leg. 
I  went  to  see  it  last  night  by  candlelight.  We  were 
ushered  into  a  room  very  little  bigger  than  ours  at 
Pentonville.  A  man  and  woman  and  four  boys  live  in 
this  room,  joint  tenants  with  nine  snakes,  most  of  them 
such  as  no  remedy  has  been  discovered  for  their  bite. 
We  walked  into  the  middle,  which  is  formed  by  a  half- 
moon  of  wired  boxes,  all  mansions  of  snakes — whip-snakes, 
thunder-snakes,  pig-nose-suakes,  American  vipers,  and  this 
monster.  He  lies  curled  up  in  folds.  Immediately  a 
stranger  entered  (for  he  is  used  to  the  family,  and  sees 
them  play  at  cards,)  he  set  up  a  rattle  like  a  watchman's 
in  London,  or  near  as  loud,  and  reared  up  a  head,  from 
the  midst  of  these  folds,  like  a  toad,  and  shook  his  head, 
and  showed  every  sign  a  snake  can  show  of  irritation.  I 
had  the  foolish  curiosity  to  strike  the  wires  with  my  finger, 
and  the  devil  flew  at  me  with  his  toad-mouth  wide  open  ; 
the  inside  of  his  mouth  is  quite  white.  I  had  got  my 
finger  away,  nor  could  he  well  have  bit  me  with  his  big 
mouth,  which  would  have  been  certain  death  in  five 
minutes.  But  it  frightened  me  so  much,  that  I  did  not 
recover  my  voice  for  a  minute's  space.  I  forgot,  in  my 
fear,  that  he  was  secured.  You  would  have  forgot  too, 
for  'tis  incredible  how  such  a  monster  can  be  confined  in 
small  gauzy-looking  wires.  I  dreamed  of  snakes  in  the 
night.  I  wish  to  heaven  you  could  see  it.  He  absolutely 
swelled  with  passion  to  the  bigness  of  a  large  thigh.  I 
could  not  retreat  without  infringing  on  another  box ;  and 
just  behind,  a  little  devil  not  an  inch  from  my  back  had 
got  his  nose  out,  with  some  difficulty  and  pain,  quite 
through  the  bars  !  He  was  soon  taught  better  manners. 
A.11  the  snakes  were  curious,  and  objects  of  terror :  but 


TO  MANNING.  145 

this  monster,  like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallowed  up  the 
impression  of  the  rest.  He  opened  his  cursed  mouth, 
when  he  made  at  me,  as  wide  as  his  head  was  broad.  I 
hallooed  out  quite  loud,  and  felt  pains  all  over  my  body 
with  the  fi-ight. 

I  have  had  the  felicity  of  hearing  George  Dyer  read 
out  one  book  of  the  Farmer's  Boy.  I  thought  it  rather 
childish.  No  doubt,  there  is  originality  in  it  (which,  in 
your  self-taught  geniuses,  is  a  most  rare  quality,  they 
generally  getting  hold  of  some  bad  models,  in  a  scarcity 
of  books,  and  forming  their  taste  on  them),  but  no  selection. 
All  is  described. 

Mind,  I  have  only  heard  read  one  book. — Yours  sin- 
cerely, Philo-Snake,  C.  L. 


LETTER  LXVIII.]  November  3,  1800. 

Ecquid  meditatur  Archimedes  ?  What  is  Euclid  doing? 
What  hath  happened  to  learned  Trisniegist  ?  Doth  he 
take  it  in  ill  part,  that  his  humble  friend  did  not  comply 
with  his  courteous  invitation  ?  Let  it  suffice,  I  could  not 
come.  Are  impossibilities  nothing  1 — be  they  abstractions 
of  the  intellect  1 — or  not  (rather)  most  sharp  and  mortify- 
ing realities  1  nuts  in  the  Will's  mouth  too  hard  for  her  to 
crack  ?  brick  and  stone  walls  in  her  way,  which  she  can 
by  no  means  eat  through  1  sore  lets,  impedimenta  viarum 
no  thoroughfares  1  racemi  nimium  alte  pendentes  ?  Is 
the  phrase  classic?  I  allude  to  the  grapes  in  ^Esop, 
which  cost  the  fox  a  strain,  and  gained  the  world  an 
aphorism.  Observe  the  superscription  of  this  letter.  In 
adapting  the  size  of  the  letters,  which  constitute  your 
name  and  Mr.  Crib's  name  respectively,  I  had  an  eye 
to  your  different  stations  in  life.  'Tis  truly  curious,  and 
must  be  soothing  to  an  aristocrat.  I  wonder  it  has  never 
been  hit  ou  before  my  time.  I  have  made  an  acquisition 
latterly  of  a  pleasant  hand,  one  Rickman,  to  whom  I  was 
introduced  by  George  Dyer,  not  the  most  flattering 
auspices  under  which  one  man  can  be  introduced  to 
L 


146  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

another.  George  brings  all  sorts  of  people  together, 
setting  up  a  sort  of  agrarian  law,  or  common  property,  ift 
matter  of  society ;  but  for  once  he  has  done  me  a  great 
pleasure,  while  he  was  only  pursuing  a  principle,  as  ignes 
fatui  may  light  you  home.  This  Rickman  lives  in  our 
Buildings,  immediately  opposite  our  house ;  the  finest 
fellow  to  drop  in  a'  nights,  about  nine  or  ten  o'clock — 
cold  bread  and  cheese  time — just  in  the  wishing  time  of 
the  night,  when  you  wish  for  somebody  to  come  in, 
without  a  distinct  idea  of  a  probable  anybody.  Just 
in  the  nick,  neither  too  early  to  be  tedious,  nor  too 
late  to  sit  a  reasonable  time.  He  is  a  most  pleasant 
hand  ;  a  fine  rattling  fellow,  has  gone  through  life  laugh- 
ing at  solemn  apes  ; — himself  hugely  literate,  oppressively 
full  of  information  in  all  stuff  of  conversation,  from  matter 
of  fact  to  Xenophon  and  Plato — can  talk  Greek  with 
Porson,  politics  with  Thelwall,  conjecture  with  George 
Dyer,  nonsense  with  me,  and  anything  with  anybody ; 
a  great  farmer,  somewhat  concerned  in  an  agricultural 
magazine;  reads  no  poetry  but  Shakspeare ;  very  intimate 
with  Southey,  but  never  reads  his  poetry;  relishes  George 
Dyer ;  thoroughly  penetrates  into  the  ridiculous  wherever 
found ;  understands  the  first  time  (a  great  desideratum  in 
common  minds) — you  need  never  twice  speak  to  him ; 
does  not  want  explanations,  translations,  limitations,  as 
Professor  Godwin  does  when  you  make  an  assertion  ; 
up  to  anything ;  down  to  everything ;  whatever  sapit 
hominem.  A.  perfect  man.  All  this  farrago,  which  must 
perplex  you  to  read,  and  has  put  me  to  a  little  trouble 
to  select,  only  proves  how  impossible  it  is  to  describe  a 
pleasant  hand.  You  must  see  Rickman  to  know  him, 
for  he  is  a  species  in  one ;  a  new  class ;  an  exotic ;  any 
slip  of  which  I  am  proud  to  put  in  my  garden-pot ;  the 
clearest  headed  fellow ;  fullest  of  matter,  with  least  ver- 
bosity. If  there  he  any  alloy  in  my  fortune  to  have  met 
with  such  a  man,  it  is  that  he  commonly  divides  his  time 
between  town  and  country,  having  some  foolish  family 
ties  at  Christchurch,  by  which  means  he  can  only  gladden 


TO  MANNING.  147 

our  London  hemisphere  with  returns  of  light.      He  is 
'  now  going  for  six  weeks. 

At  last  I  have  written  to  Kemble,  to  know  the  event 
of  my  play,  which  was  presented  last  Christmas.  As  I 
suspected,  came  an  answer  back  that  the  copy  was  lost, 
and  could  not  be  found — no  hint  that  anybody  had  to 
this  day  ever  looked  into  it — with  a  courteous  (reasonable !) 
request  of  another  copy  (if  I  had  one  by  me),  and  a 
promise  of  a  definite  answer  in  a  week.  I  could  not 
resist  so  facile  and  moderate  a  demand ;  so  scribbled  out 
another,  omitting  sundry  things,  such  as  the  witch  story, 
about  half  of  the  forest  scene  (which  is  too  leisurely  for 
story),  and  transposing  that  soliloquy  about  England 
getting  drunk,  which,  like  its  reciter,  stupidly  stood 
alone,  nothing  pvevenient  or  antevenient ;  and  cleared 
away  a  good  deal  besides  ;  and  sent  this  copy,  written  all 
out  (with  alterations,  etc.,  requiring  judgment}  in  one  day 
and  a  half!  I  sent  it  last  night,  and  am  in  weekly 
expectation  of  the  tolling  bell  and  death-warrant. 

This  is  all  my  London  news.  Send  me  some  from  the 
banks  of  Cam,  as  the  poets  delight  to  speak,  especially 
George  Dyer,  who  has  no  other  name  nor  idea  nor  defini- 
tion of  Cambridge.  Its  being  a  market  town,  sending 
members  to  Parliament,  never  entered  into  his  definition. 
It  was  and  is  simply  the  banks  of  the  Cam,  or  the  fair 
Cam,  as  Oxford  is  the  banks  of  the  Isis,  or  the  fair  Isis. 
Yours  in  all  humility,  most  illustrious  Trismegist, 

C.  LAMB. 

(Eead  on ;  there's  more  at  the  bottom.) 

You  ask  me  about  the  Farmer's  Boy.  Don't  you 
think  the  fellow  who  wrote  it  (who  is  a  shoemaker)  has 
a  poor  mind  ?  Don't  you  find  he  is  always  silly  about 
poor  Giles,  and  those  abject  kind  of  phrases,  which  mark 
a  man  that  looks  up  to  wealth  ?  None  of  Burns's  poet 
dignity.  What  do  you  think?  I  have  just  opened  him; 
but  he  makes  me  sick. 


148  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMR 

Dyer  knows  the  shoemaker,  a  damn'd  stupid  hound  in 
company;  but  George  promises  to  introduce  him  indis- 
criminately to  all  friends. 


LETTER  LXIX.]  November  28,  1800. 

Dear  Manning — I  have  received  a  very  kind  invitation 
from  Lloyd  and  Sophia,  to  go  and  spend  a  month  with 
them  at  the  Lakes.  Now  it  fortunately  happens  (which 
is  so  seldom  the  case)  that  I  have  spare  cash  by  me, 
enough  to  answer  the  expenses  of  so  long  a  journey ;  and 
I  am  determined  to  get  away  from  the  office  by  some 
means.  The  purpose  of  this  letter  is  to  request  of  you 
(my  dear  friend),  that  you  will  not  take  it  unkind  if  1 
decline  my  proposed  visit  to  Cambridge  for  tlie  present. 
Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  take  Cambridge  in  my  way, 
going  or  coming.  I  need  not  describe  to  you  the  expect- 
ations which  such  an  one  as  myself,  pent  up  all  my  life 
in  a  dirty  city,  have  formed  of  a  tour  to  the  Lakes. 
Consider  Grasmere !  Ambleside  !  Wordsworth  !  Cole- 
ridge !  I  hope  you  will.  Hills,  woods,  lakes,  and  mount- 
ains, to  the  devil.  I  will  eat  snipes  with  thee,  Thomas 
Manning.  Only  confess,  confess,  a  bite. 

P.S. — I  think  you  named  the  16th;  but  was  it  not 
modest  of  Lloyd  to  send  such  an  invitation  !  It  shows 
his  knowledge  of  money  and  time.  I  should  be  loth  to 
think  he  meant 

"  Ironic  satire  sidelong  sklented 
On  my  poor  pursie." — BCRNS. 

For  my  part,  with  reference  to  my  friends  northward,  I 
must  confess  that  I  am  not  romance-bit  about  Nature. 
The  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky  (when  all  is  said),  is  but  as 
a  house  to  dwell  in.  If  the  inmates  be  courteous,  and 
good  liquors  flow  like  the  conduits  at  an  old  coronation,  if 
they  can  talk  sensibly,  and  feel  properly,  I  have  no  need  to 
stand  staring  upon  the  gilded  looking-glass  (that  strained  my 


TO  GODWIN.  149 

friend's  purse-strings  in  the  purchase)  nor  his  five-shilling 
print,  over  the  mantelpiece,  of  old  Nabbs  the  carrier  (which 
only  betrays  his  false  taste).  Just  as  important  to  me 
(in  a  sense)  is  all  the  furniture  of  my  world ;  eye-pamper- 
ing, but  satisfies  no  heart.  Streets,  streets,  streets, 
markets,  theatres,  churches,  Covent  Gardens,  shops  spark- 
ling with  pretty  faces  of  industrious  milliners,  neat  semp- 
stresses, ladies  cheapening,  gentlemen  behind  counters 
lying,  authors  in  the  street  with  spectacles,  George  Dyers 
(you  may  know  them  by  their  gait),  lamps  lit  at  night, 
pastrycooks'  and  silversmiths'  shops,  beautiful  Quakers  of 
Pentonville,  noise  of  coaches,  drowsy  cry  of  mechanic 
watchmen  at  night,  with  bucks  reeling  home  drunk ;  if 
you  happen  to  wake  at  midnight,  cries  of  "Fire!"  and 
"  Stop  thief!";  inns  of  court,  with  their  learned  air,  and 
halls,  and  butteries,  just  like  Cambridge  colleges ;  old 
book-stalls,  "  Jeremy  Taylors,"  "  Burtons  on  Melancholy," 
and  "Religio  Medicis,"  on  every  stall  These  are  thy 
pleasures,.  0  London  !  with  thy  many  sins.  0  City, 
abounding  in  w  .  .  .,  for  these  may  Keswick  and  her 
giant  brood  go  hang !  C.  L. 


To  WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

Thursday  Morning, 
LETTER  LXX.]  December  4,  1800. 

Dear  Sir — I  send  this  speedily  after  the  heels  of 
Cooper  (0  !  the  dainty  expression)  to  say  that  Mary  is 
obliged  to  stay  at  home  on  Sunday  to  receive  a  female 
friend,  from  whom  I  am  equally  glad  to  escape.  So  that 
we  shall  be  by  ourselves.  I  write,  because  it  may  make 
some  difference  in  your  marketing,  etc.  C.  L. 

I  am  sorry  to  put  you  to  the  expense  of  twopence  post 
age.  But  I  calculate  thus  :  if  Mary  comes  she  will — 


150  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

eat  Beef  2  plates,  .  4d. 

Batter  Pudding  1  do.  .  .  2d. 

Beer,  a  pint,  .  .  .  .  2d. 

Wine,  3  glasses,      .  .  1 1  d.  I  drink  no  wiue  ! 

Chesnuts,  after  dinner,  .  2d. 
Tea  and  supper  at  moderate 

calculation,     .         .  .  9d. 


2s.  6d. 
From  which  deduct       2d.  postage. 

2s.  4d. 
You  are  a  clear  gainer  by  her  not  coming. 


Wednesday  Morning, 
LKTTER  LXXI.]  December  11,  1800. 

Dear  Sir — I  expected  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  from 
your  company  to-morrow,  but  I  am  sorry  I  must  beg  of 
you  to  excuse  me.  I  have  been  confined  ever  since  I  saw 
you  with  one  of  the  severest  colds  I  ever  experienced, 
occasioned  by  being  in  the  night  air  on  Sunday  and  on  the 
following  day  very  foolishly.  I  am  neither  in  health  nor 
spirits  to  meet  company.  I  hope  and  trust  I  shall  get  out 
on  Saturday  night.  You  will  add  to  your  many  favours 
by  transmitting  to  me  as  early  as  possible  as  many  tickets 
as  conveniently  you  can  spare, — Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

I  have  been  plotting  how  to  abridge  the  Epilogue.  But 
I  cannot  see  that  any  lines  can  be  spared,  retaining  the 
connection,  except  these  two,  which  are  better  out. 

"  Why  should  I  instance,  etc. , 
The  sick  man's  purpose,  etc.," 

and  then  the  following  line  must  run  thus, 

"  The  truth  by  an  example  best  is  shown." 
Excuse  this  important  postscript. 


TO  MANNING.  151 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LXXII.]  December  13,  1800. 

I  have  received  your  letter  this  moment,  not  having 
been  at  the  office.  I  have  just  time  to  scribble  down  the 
epilogue.  To  your  epistle  I  will  just  reply,  that  I  will 
certainly  come  to  Cambridge  before  January  is  out ;  I'll 
come  when  I  can.  You  shall  have  an  amended  copy  of 
my  play  early  next  week.  Mary  thanks  you ;  but  her 
handwriting  is  too  feminine  to  be  exposed  to  a  Cambridge 
gentleman,  though  I  endeavour  to  persuade  her  that  you 
understand  algebra,  and  must  understand  her  hand.  The 
play  is  the  man's  you  wot  of;  but  for  Heaven's  sake  do 
not  mention  it :  it  is  to  come  out  in  a  feigned  name,  as 
one  Tobin's.  I  will  omit  the  introductory  lines  which 
connect  it  with  the  play,  and  give  you  the  concluding 
tale,  which  is  the  mass  and  bulk  of  the  epilogue.  The 
name  is  Jack  Incident.  It  is  all  about  promise-breaking  • 
3  ou  will  see  it  all,  if  you  read  the  papers. 

"Jack,  of  dramatic  genius  justly  vain, 
Purchased  a  renter's  share  at  Drury  Lane ; 
A  prudent  man  in  every  other  matter, 
Known  at  his  club-room  for  an  honest  hatter ; 
Humane  and  courteous,  led  a  civil  life, 
And  has  been  seldom  known  to  beat  his  wife  ; 
But  Jack  is  now  grown  quite  another  man, 
Frequents  the  green-room,  knows  the  plot  and  plan 

Of  each  new  piece, 

And  has  been  seen  to  talk  with  Sheridan  1 
In  at  the  play-house  just  at  six  he  pops, 
And  never  quits  it  till  the  curtain  drops, 
Is  never  absent  on  the  author's  night, 

Knows  actresses  and  actors  too by  sight ; 

So  humble,  that  with  Suett  he'll  confer, 

Or  take  a  pipe  with  plain  Jack  Bannister  ; 

Nay,  with  an  author  has  been  known  so  free, 

He  once  suggested  a  catastrophe — 

In  short,  John  dabbled  till  his  head  was  turn'd  ; 

His  wife  remonstrated,  his  neighbours  mourn'd, 


152  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

His  customers  were  dropping  off  apace, 

And  Jack's  affairs  began  to  wear  a  piteous  face. 

One  night  his  wife  began  a  curtain  lecture  ; 
1  My  dearest  Johnny,  husband,  spouse,  protector, 
Take  pity  on  your  helpless  babes  and  me, 
Save  us  from  ruin,  you  from  bankruptcy — 
Look  to  your  business,  leave  these  cursed  plays, 
And  try  again  yoxir  old  industrious  ways.' 

Jack  who  was  always  scared  at  the  Gazette, 
And  had  some  bits  of  scull  uninjured  yet, 
Promised  amendment,  vow'd  liis  wife  spake  reason, 
'He  woiild  not  see  another  play  that  season — ' 

Three  stubborn  fortnights  Jack  his  promise  kept, 
Was  late  and  early  in  his  shop,  eat,  slept, 
And  walk'd  and  talk'd,  like  ordinary  men  ; 
No  wit,  but  John  the  hatter  once  again — 
Visits  his  club  :  when  lo  !  one  fatal  night 
His  wife  with  horror  view'd  the  well-known  sight — 
John's  hat,  wig,  snuff-box — well  she  knew  his  tricks - 
And  Jack  decamping  at  the  hour  of  six, 
Just  at  the  counter's  edge  a  playbill  lay, 
Announcing  that  '  Pizarro '  was  the  play — 
'0  Johnny,  Johnny,  this  is  your  old  doing.' 
Quoth  Jack,  '  Why  what  the  devil  storm's  a-brewing  ? 
About  a  harmless  play  why  all  this  fright  ? 
I'll  go  and  see  it  if  it's  but  for  spite — 
Zounds,  woman  !  Nelson's  to  be  there  to-night.'  " 

N.B. — This  was  intended  for  Jack  Bannister  to  speak; 
but  the  sage  managers  have  chosen  Miss  Heard,  except 
Miss  Tidswell,  the  worst  actress  ever  seen  or  heard. 
Now  I  remember  I  have  promised  the  loan  of  my  play. 
I  will  lend  it  instantly,  and  you  shall  get  it  ('pon  honour !) 
by  this  day  week. 

I  must  go  and  dress  for  the  boxes  !  First  night ! 
Finding  I  have  time,  I  transcribe  the  rest.  Observe,  you 
must  read  the  last  first ;  it  begins  thus  : — (The  names  I 
took  from  a  little  outline  G.  gave  me.  I  have  not  read 
the  play.) 

"  Ladies,  ye've  seen  how  Guzman's  consort  died. 
Poor  victim  of  a  Spaniard  brother's  pride, 
When  Spanish  honour  through  the  world  was  blown, 
And  Spanish  beauty  for  the  best  was  known. 
In  that  romantic,  uneulighten'd  time, 


TO  GODWIN.  153 

A  breach  of  promise  was  a  sort  of  crime — 
Which  of  you  handsome  English  ladies  here, 
But  deems  the  penance  bloody  and  severe  ? 
A  whimsical  old  Saragossa  fashion, 
That  a  dead  father's  dying  inclination, 
Should  live  to  thwart  a  living  daughter's  passion  : 
Unjustly  on  the  sex  ice  men  exclaim, 
Rail  at  your  vices, — and  commit  the  same  ; — 
Man  is  a  promise-breaker  from  the  womb, 
And  goes  a  promise-breaker  to  the  tomb — 
What  need  we  instance  here  the  lover's  vow, 
The  sick  man's  purpose,  or  the  great  man's  bow  t 
The  truth  by  few  examples  best  is  shown — 
Instead  of  many  which  are  better  known, 
Take  poor  Jack  Incident,  that's  dead  and  gone. 
Jack,"  etc.  etc.  etc. 

Now  you  have  it  all — how  do  you  like  it?     I  am 
going  to  hear  it  recited  ! !  1  C.  L, 


To  WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

LETTER  LXXIIL]  Late  o1  Suiiday,  December  14,  1800. 

Dear  Sir — I  have  performed  my  office  in  a  slovenly 
way,  but  judge  for  me.  I  sat  clown  at  six  o'clock,  and 
never  left  reading  (and  I  read  out  to  Mary)  your  play  till 
10.  In  this  sitting  I  noted  down  lines  as  they  occurred, 
exactly  as  you  will  read  my  rough  paper.  Do  not  be 
frightened  at  the  bulk  of  my  remarks,  for  they  are  almost 
sill  upon  single  lines,  which,  put  together,  do  not  amount 
to  a  hundred,  and  many  of  them  merely  verbal.  I  had 
but  one  object  in  view,  abridgment  for  compression  sake. 
I  have  used  a  dogmatical  language  (which  is  truly  ludi- 
crous when  the  trivial  nature  of  my  remarks  is  considered) ; 
and,  remember,  my  office  was  to  hunt  out  faults.  You 
may  fairly  abridge  one  half  of  them,  as  a  fair  deduction 
for  the  infirmities  of  Error  and  a  single  reading,  which 
leaves  only  fifty  objections,  most  of  them  merely  against 
words,  on  no  short  play.  Remember,  you  constituted  me 


154  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Executioner,  and  a  hangman  has  been  seldom  seen  to  be 
ashamed  of  his  profession  before  Master  Sheriff.  We'll 
talk  of  the  Beauties  (of  which  I  am  more  than  ever  sure) 
when  we  meet. — Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

I  will  barely  add,  as  you  are  on  the  very  point  of 
printing,  that  in  my  opinion  neither  prologue  nor  epilogue 
should  accompany  the  play.  It  can  only  serve  to  remind 
your  readers  of  its  fate.  Both  suppose  an  audience,  and, 
that  jest  being  gone,  must  convert  into  burlesque.  Nor 
would  I  (but  therein  custom  and  decorum  must  be  a  law) 
print  the  actors'  names.  Some  things  must  be  kept  out 
of  sight. 

I  have  done,  and  I  have  but  a  few  square  inches  of 
paper  to  fill  up.  I  am  emboldened  by  a  little  jorum  of 
punch  (vastly  good)  to  say  that  next  to  one  man,  I  am 
the  most  hurt  at  our  ill  success.  The  breast  of  Hecuba, 
where  she  did  suckle  Hector,  looked  not  to  be  mere 
lovely  than  Marshal's  forehead  when  it  spit  forth  sweat, 
at  Critic-swords  contending.  I  remember  two  honest  lines 
by  Marvel  (whose  poems  by  the  way  I  am  just  going  to 
possess). 

"  Where  every  Mower's  wholesome  heat 
Smells  like  an  Alexander's  sweat" 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LXXIV.]  December  16,  1800. 

We  are  damn'd ! — Not  the  facetious  epilogue  itself 
could  save  us ;  for,  as  the  editor  of  the  Morning  Post 
(quick-sighted  gentleman  !)  hath  this  morning  truly  ob- 
eerved  (I  beg  pardon  if  I  falsify  his  words  ;  their  profound 
sense  I  am  sure  I  retain ;)  both  prologue  and  epilogue 
were  worthy  of  accompanying  such  a  piece ;  and  indeed 
(mark  the  profundity,  Mr.  Manning!)  were  received  with 
proper  indignation  by  such  of  the  audience  only  as  thought 


TO  MANNING.  155 

either  worth  attending  to.  Professor,  thy  glories  wax 
dim  !  Again,  the  incomparable  author  of  the  True  Briton 
declareth  in  his  paper  (bearing  same  date)  that  the  epilogue 
was  an  indifferent  attempt  at  humour  and  character,  and 
failed  in  both.  I  forbear  to  mention  the  other  papers, 
because  I  have  not  read  them.  0  Professor,  how  different 
thy  feelings  now  (quantum  mutatus  ab  illo  professore, 
qui  in  agris  philosophies  tantas  victorias  acquisivisti), — 
how  different  thy  proud  feelings  but  one  little  week  ago 
— thy  anticipations  of  thy  nine  nights — those  visionary 
claps,  which  have  soothed  thy  soul  by  day  and  thy  dreams 
by  night !  Calling  in  accidentally  on  the  Professor  while 
he  was  out,  I  was  ushered  into  the  study ;  and  my  nose 
quickly  (most  sagacious  always)  pointed  me  to  four  tokens 
lying  loose  upon  thy  table,  Professor,  which  indicated  thy 
violent  and  satanical  pride  of  heart.  Imprimis,  there 
caught  mine  eye  a  list  of  six  persons,  thy  friends,  whom 
thou  didst  meditate  inviting  to  a  sumptuous  dinner  on 
the  Thursday,  anticipating  the  profits  of  thy  Saturday's 
play  to  answer  charges :  I  was  in  the  honoured  file  ! 
Next  (a  stronger  evidence  of  thy  violent  and  almost 
satanical  pride)  lay  a  list  of  all  the  morning  papers  (from 
the  Morning  Chronicle  downwards  to  the  Porcupine), 
with  the  places  of  their  respective  offices,  where  thou 
wast  meditating  to  insert,  and  didst  insert,  an  elaborate 
sketch  of  the  story  of  thy  play ;  stones  in  thy  enemy's 
hand  to  bruise  thee  with,  and  severely  wast  thou  bruised, 

0  Professor !  nor  do  I  know  what  oil  to  pour  into  thy 
wounds.     Next  (which  convinced  me  to  a  dead  conviction 
of  thy  pride,  violent  and  almost  satanical  pride  !)  lay  a  list 
of  books  which  thy  un-tragedy- favoured  pocket  could 
never  answer ;  Dodsley's  Old  Plays,  Malone's  Shakspeare 
(still  harping  upon  thy  play,  thy  philosophy  abandoned 
meanwhile  to  Christians  and  superstitious  minds) ;  nay, 

1  believe  (if  I  can  believe  my  memory)  that  the  ambitious 
Encyclopaedia  itself  was  part  of  thy  meditated  acquisitions; 
but  many  a  playbook  was  there.     All  these  visions  are 
damned;  and  thou,  Professor,  must  read  Shakspeare  in 


156  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

future  out  of  a  common  edition  ;  and,  hark  ye  !  pray  read 
him  to  a  little  better  purpose.  Last  and  strongest  against 
thee  (in  colours  manifest  as  the  hand  upon  Belshazzar's 
wall)  lay  a  volume  of  poems  by  C.  Lloyd  and  C.  Lamb. 
Thy  heart  misgave  thee,  that  thy  assistant  might  possibly 
not  have  talent  enough  to  furnish  thee  an  epilogue ! 
Manning,  all  these  things  came  over  my  mind ;  all  the 
gratulations  that  would  have  thickened  upon  him,  and 
even  some  have  glanced  aside  upon  his  humble  friend ; 
the  vanity,  and  the  fame,  and  the  profits  (the  Professor 
is  £500  ideal  money  out  of  pocket  by  this  failure,  besides 
£200  he  would  have  got  for  the  copyright,  and  the  Pro- 
fessor is  never  much  beforehand  with  the  world ;  what 
he  gets  is  all  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  dint  of  brain, 
for  the  Professor,  though  a  sure  man,  is  also  a  slow) ; 
and  now  to  muse  upon  thy  altered  physiognomy,  thy  pale 
and  squalid  appearance  (a  kind  of  blue  sickness  about  the 
eyelids),  and  thy  crest  fallen,  and  thy  proud  demand  of 
£200  from  thy  bookseller  changed  to  an  uncertainty  of 
his  taking  it  at  all,  or  giving  the  full  £50.  The  Professor 
has  won  my  heart  by  this  his  mournful  catastrophe.  You 
remember  Marshall,  who  dined  with  him  at  my  house ;  I 
met  him  in  the  lobby  immediately  after  the  damnation  of 
the  Professor's  play,  and  he  looked  to  me  like  an  angel ;  his 
face  was  lengthened,  and  all  over  perspiration.  I  never 
.  saw  such  a  care-fraught  visage ;  I  could  have  hugged  him, 
I  loved  him  so  intensely.  "  From  every  pore  of  him  a 
perfume  fell."  I  have  seen  that  man  in  many  situations, 
and,  from  my  soul,  I  think  that  a  more  god-like  honest 
soul  exists  not  in  this  world.  The  Professor's  poor  nerves 
trembling  with  the  recent  shock,  he  hurried  him  away  to 
my  house  to  supper,  and  there  we  comforted  him  as  well 
as  we  could.  He  came  to  consult  me  about  a  change  of 
catastrophe  j  but  alas  !  the  piece  was  condemned  long 
before  that  crisis.  I  at  first  humoured  him  with  a 
specious  proposition,  but  have  since  joined  his  true  friends 
in  advising  him  to  give  it  up.  He  did  it  with  a  pang, 
and  is  to  print  it  as  his.  L. 


TO  MANNING.  157 


LETTER  LXXV.]  December  27,  1800. 

At  length  George  Dyer's  phrenitis  has  come  to  a  crisis  ; 
he  is  raging  and  furiously  mad.  I  waited  upon  the 
heathen,  Thursday  was  a  se'nnight.  The  first  symptom 
which  struck  my  eye,  and  gave  me  incontrovertible  proof 
of  the  fatal  truth,  was  a  pair  of  nankeen  pantaloons  four 
times  too  big  for  him,  which  the  said  Heathen  did  perti- 
naciously affirm  to  be  new. 

They  were  absolutely  ingrained  with  the  accumulated 
dirt  of  ages ;  but  he  affirmed  them  to  be  clean.  He  was 
going  to  visit  a  lady  that  was  nice  about  those  things, 
and  that's  the  reason  he  wore  nankeen  that  day.  And 
then  he  danced,  and  capered,  and  fidgeted,  and  pulled  up 
his  pantaloons,  and  hugged  his  intolerable  flannel  vestment 
closer  about  his  poetic  loins.  Anon  he  gave  it  loose  to 
the  zephyrs  which  plentifully  insinuate  their  tiny  bodies 
through  every  crevice,  door,  window,  or  wainscot,  expressly 
formed  for  the  exclusion  of  such  impertinents.  Then  he 
caught  at  a  proof  sheet,  and  catched  up  a  laundress's  bill 
instead — made  a  dart  at  Bloomfield's  Poems,  and  threw 
them  in  agony  aside.  I  could  not  bring  him  to  one 
direct  reply ,  he  could  not  maintain  his  jumping  mind  in 
a  right  line  for  the  tithe  of  a  moment  by  Clifford's  Inn 
clock.  He  must  go  to  the  printer's  immediately :  (the 
most  unlucky  accident !)  he  had  struck  off  five  hundred 
impressions  of  his  Poems,  which  were  ready  for  delivery 
to  subscribers,  and  the  Preface  must  all  be  expunged. 
There  were  eighty  pages  of  Preface,  and  not  till  that 
morning  had  he  discovered  that  in  the  very  first  page  of 
said  Preface  he  had  set  out  with  a  principle  of  Criticism 
fundamentally  wrong,  which  vitiated  all  his  following 
reasoning.  The  Preface  must  be  expunged,  although  it 
cost  him  £30,  the  lowest  calculation,  taking  in  paper  and 
printing!  In  vain  have  his  real  friends  remonstrated 
against  this  Midsummer  madness.  George  is  as  obstinate 
as  a  Primitive  Christian,  and  wards  and  parries  off  all 


158  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

our  thrusts  with  one  unanswerable  fence  : — "  Sir,  'tis  of 
great  consequence  that  the  world  is  not  misled/" 

As  for  the  other  Professor,  he  has  actually  begun  to 
dive  into  Tavernier  and  Ghardin's  Persian  Travels  for  a 
story,  to  form  a  new  drama  for  the  sweet  tooth  of  this 
fastidious  age.  Hath  not  Bethlehem  College  a  fair  action 
for  non-residence  against  such  professors  1  Are  poets  so 
few  in  this  age,  that  He  must  write  poetry  ]  Is  morals 
a  subject  so  exhausted,  that  he  must  quit  that  line  1  Is 
the  metaphysic  well  (without  a  bottom)  drained  dry  ? 

If  I  can  guess  at  the  wicked  pride  of  the  Professor's 
heart,  I  would  take  a  shrewd  wager  that  he  disdains 
ever  again  to  dip  his  pen  in  Prose.  Adieu,  ye  splendid 
theories  !  Farewell,  dreams  of  political  justice  !  Law- 
suits, where  I  was  council  for  Archbishop  Fenelon  versus 
my  own  mother,  in  the  famous  fire  cause ! 

Vanish  from  my  mind,  professors,  one  and  all !  I  have 
metal  more  attractive  on  foot. 

Man  of  many  snipes, — I  will  sup  with  thee  (Deo 
volente,  et  diabolo  nolente,)  on  Monday  night,  the  5th  of 
January,  in  the  new  year,  and  crush  a  cup  to  the  infant 
century. 

A  word  or  two  of  my  progress  :  Embark  at  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  with  a  fresh  gale,  on  a  Cambridge  one- 
decker  ;  very  cold  till  eight  at  night ;  land  at  St.  Mary's 
lighthouse,  muffins  and  coffee  upon  table  (or  any  other 
curious  production  of  Turkey,  or  both  Indies),  snipes 
exactly  at  nine,  punch  to  commence  at  ten,  with  argu- 
ment; difference  of  opinion  is  expected  to  take  place 
about  eleven ;  perfect  unanimity,  with  some  haziness  and 
dimness,  before  twelve.  N.B. — My  single  affection  is  not 
so  singly  wedded  to  snipes ;  but  the  curious  and  epicurean 
eye  would  also  take  a  pleasure  in  beholding  a  delicate 
and  well-chosen  assortment  of  teals,  ortolans,  the  unctuous 
and  palate-soothing  flesh  of  geese,  wild  and  tame,  night- 
ingales' brains,  the  sensorium  of  a  young  sucking  pig,  or 
any  other  Christmas  dish,  which  I  leave  to  the  judgment 
of  you  and  the  cook  of  Gonville.  C.  LAMR 


TO  COLERIDGE.  159 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTKR  LXXVI.  ]  [No  date— end  of  1800.] 

I  send  you,  in  this  parcel,  my  play,  which  I  beg  you 
to  present  in  my  name,  with  my  respect  and  love,  to 
Wordsworth,  and  his  sister.  You  blame  us  for  giving 
your  direction  to  Miss  Wesley.  The  woman  has  been, 
ten  times  after  us  about  it,  and  we  gave  it  her  at  last, 
under  the  idea  that  no  further  harm  would  ensue ;  but  she 
would  once  write  to  you,  and  you  would  bite  your  lips  and 
forget  to  answer  it,  and  so  it  would  end.  You  read  us  a 
dismal  homily  upon  "  Realities."  We  know,  quite  as  well 
as  you  do,  what  are  shadows  and  what  are  realities.  You, 
for  instance,  when  you  are  over  your  fourth  or  fifth  jorum, 
chirping  about  old  school  occurrences,  are  the  best  of 
realities.  Shadows  are  cold,  thin  things,  that  have  no 
warmth  or  grasp  in  them.  Miss  Wesley  and  her  friend, 
and  a  tribe  of  authoresses  that  come  after  you  here  daily, 
and,  in  defect  of  you,  hive  and  cluster  upon  iis,  are  the 
shadows.  You  encouraged  that  mopsey,  Miss  Wesley,  to 
dance  after  you,  in  the  hope  of  having  her  nonsense  put 
into  a  nonsensical  Anthology.  We  have  pretty  well 
shaken  her  off  by  that  simple  expedient  of  referring 
her  to  you ;  but  there  are  more  burs  in  the  wind.  I 
came  home  t'  other  day  from  business,  hungry  as  a  hunter, 
to  dinner,  with  nothing,  I  am  sure,  of  the  author  but 
hunger  about  me;  and  whom  found  I  closeted  with 
Mary  but  a  friend  of  this  Miss  Wesley,  one  Miss  Benjay 
or  Benje ;  I  don't  know  how  she  spells  her  name.  I  just 
came  in  time  enough,  I  believe,  luckily  to  prevent  them 
from  exchanging  vows  of  eternal  friendship.  It  seems 
she  is  one  of  your  authoresses,  that  you  first  foster,  and 
then  upbraid  us  with.  But  I  forgive  you.  "  The  rogue 
has  given  me  potions  to  make  me  love  him."  Well;  go 
she  would  not,  nor  step  a  step  over  our  threshold,  till  we 


160  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

had  promised  to  come  and  drink  tea  with  her  next  night 
I  had  never  seen  her  before,  and  could  not  tell  who  the 
devil  it  was  that  was  so  familiar.  We  went,  however, 
notl  to  be  impolite.  Her  lodgings  are  up  two  pair  of 
stairs  in  East  Street.  Tea  and  coffee,  and  macaroons — a 
Kind  of  cake — much  love.  We  sat  down.  Presently 
Miss  Benjay  broke  the  silence,  by  declaring  herself  quite 
of  a  different  opinion  from  D'Israeli,  who  supposes  thp 
differences  of  human  intellect  to  be  the  mere  effect  ot 
organisation.  She  begged  to  know  my  opinion.  I 
attempted  to  carry  it  off  with  a  pun  upon  organ,  but 
that  went  off  very  flat.  She  immediately  conceived  a 
very  low  opinion  of  my  metaphysics ;  and,  turning  round 
to  Mary,  put  some  question  to  her  in  French, — possibly 
having  heard  that  neither  Mary  nor  I  understood  French. 
The  explanation  that  took  place  occasioned  some  embar- 
rassment and  much  wondering.  She  then  fell  into  an 
insulting  conversation  about  the  comparative  genius  and 
merits  of  all  modern  langtiages,  and  concluded  with 
asserting  that  the  Saxon  was  esteemed  the  purest  dialect 
in  Germany.  From  thence  she  passed  into  the  subject  of 
poetry ;  where  I,  who  had  hitherto  sat  mute,  and  a  hearer 
only,  humbly  hoped  I  might  now  put  in  a  word  to  some 
advantage,  seeing  that  it  was  my  own  trade  in  a  manner. 
But  I  was  stopped  by  a  round  assertion,  that  no  good 
poetry  had  appeared  since  Dr.  Johnson's  time.  It  seems 
the  Doctor  has  suppressed  many  hopeful  geniuses  that 
way,  by  the  severity  of  his  critical  strictures  in  his  Lives 
of  the  Poets.  I  here  ventured  to  question  the  fact,  and 
was  beginning  to  appeal  to  names,  but  I  was  assured  "  it 
was  certainly  the  case."  Then  we  discussed  Miss  More's 
book  on  education,  which  I  had  never  read.  It  seems 
Dr.  Gregory,  another  of  Miss  Benjay's  friends,  has  found 
fault  with  one  of  Miss  More's  metaphors.  Miss  More  has 
been  at  some  pains  to  vindicate  herself, — in  the  opinion 
of  Miss  Benjay  not  without  success.  It  seems  the  Doctor 
is  invariably  against  the  use  of  broken  or  mixed  metaphor, 
which  he  reprobates,  against  the  authority  of  Shakspeare 


TO  COLERIDGE.  161 

himself.  We  next  discussed  the  question,  whether  Pope 
was  a  poet  1  I  find  Dr.  Gregory  is  of  opinion  he  was 
not,  though  Miss  Seward  does  not  at  all  concur  with 
him  in  this.  We  then  sat  upon  the  comparative  merits 
of  the  ten  translations  of  Pizarro,  and  Miss  Benjay  or 
Benje  advised  Mary  to  take  two  of  them  home  (she 
thought  it  might  afford  her  some  pleasure  to  compare 
them  verbatim)  •  which  we  declined.  It  being  now  nine 
o'clock,  wine  and  macaroons  were  again  served  round,  and 
we  parted,  with  a  promise  to  go  again  next  week,  and 
meet  the  Miss  Porters,  who,  it  seems,  have  heard  much 
of  Mr.  Coleridge,  and  wish  to  meet  us,  because  we  are 
his  friends.  I  have  been  preparing  for  the  occasion.  I 
crowd  cotton  in  my  ears.  I  read  all  the  reviews  and 
magazines  of  the  past  month,  against  the  dreadful  meet- 
ing, and  I  hope  by  these  means  to  cut  a  tolerable  second- 
rate  figure. 

Pray  let  us  have  no  more  complaints  about  shadows. 
We  are  in  a  fair  way,  through  you,  to  surfeit  sick  upon 
them. 

Our  loves  and  respects  to  your  host  and  hostess.  Our 
dearest  love  to  Coleridge. 

Take  no  thought  about  your  proof  sheets ;  they  shall 
be  done  as  if  Woodfall  himself  did  them.  Pray  send  us 
word  of  Mrs.  Coleridge  and  little  David  Hartley,  your 
little  reality. 

Farewell,  dear  Substance.  Take  no  umbrage  at  any- 
thing I  have  written.  C.  LAMB,  Umbra. 

Land  of  Shadows, 
Shadow  Month  the  16th  or  17th,  1800. 

Coleridge,  I  find  loose  among  your  papers  a  copy  of 
Christabd.  It  wants  about  thirty  lines ;  you  will  very 
much  oblige  me  by  sending  me  the  beginning  as  far  as 
that  line, — 

"And  the  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way  ;" 

and  the  intermediate  lines  between — 
If 


162  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

"The  lady  leaps  up  suddenly, 
The  lovely  Lady  Christabcl ;" 

and  the  lines, — 

"  She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak." 

The  trouble  to  you  will  be  small,  and  the  benefit  to  us 
very  great.  A  pretty  antithesis  !  A  figure  in  speech  I 
much  applaud. 

Godwin  has  called  upon  us.  He  spent  one  evening 
here :  was  very  friendly  :  kept  us  up  till  midnight,  drank 
punch,  and  talked  about  you.  He  seems  above  all  men, 
mortified  at  your  going  away.  Suppose  you  were  to  write 
to  that  good-natured  heathen  :  "  Or  is  he  a  sliadoio  ?" 

If  I  do  not  write,  impute  it  to  the  long  postage,  of 
which  you  have  so  much  cause  to  complain.  I  have 
scribbled  over  a  queer  letter,  as  I  find  by  perusal,  but  it 
means  no  mischief. 

I  am,  and  will  be,  yours  ever,  in  sober  sadness, 

C.  L. 

Write  your  German  as  plain  as  sunshine,  for  that  must 
correct  itself.  You  know  I  am  homo  unius  linguae :  in 
English — illiterate,  a  dunce,  a  ninny. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTER  LXXVIL]  January  1801. 

Thanks  for  your  letter  and  present.  I  had  already 
borrowed  your  second  volume.  What  most  pleases  me 
is,  "The  Song  of  Lucy."  Simon's  sickly  daughter,  in 
"  The  Sexton,"  made  me  cry.  Next  to  these  are  'he 
description  of  these  continuous  echoes  in  the  story  of 
"Joanna's  Laugh,"  where  the  mountains  and  all  the 
scenery  absolutely  seem  alive ;  and  that  fine  Shakspearian 
character  of  the  "  happy  man,"  in  the  "  Brothers," 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  163 

'  that  creeps  about  the  fields, 


Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheek,  or  solitary  smiles 
Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 
Write  Fool  upon  his  forehead  1 " 

I  will  mention  one  more — the  delicate  and  curious  feeling 
in  the  wish  for  the  "  Cumberland  Beggar,"  that  he  may 
have  about  him  the  melody  of  birds,  although  he  hear 
them  not.  Here  the  mind  knowingly  passes  a  fiction 
upon  herself,  first  substituting  her  own  feeling  for  the 
Beggar's,  and  in  the  same  breath  detecting  the  fallacy, 
will  not  part  with  the  wish.  The  "  Poet's  Epitaph  "  is 
disfigured,  to  my  taste,  by  the  common  satire  upon  parsons 
and  lawyers  in  the  beginning,  and  the  coarse  epithet  of 
"  pin-point,"  in  the  sixth  stanza.  All  the  rest  is  eminently 
good,  and  your  own.  I  will  just  add  that  it  appears  to 
me  a  fault  in  the  "Beggar,"  that  the  instructions  con- 
veyed in  it  are  too  direct,  and  like  a  lecture :  they  don't 
elide  into  the  mind  of  the  reader  while  he  is  imagining 
no  such  matter.  An  intelligent  reader  finds  a  sort  of 
insult  in  being  told,  "  I  will  teach  you  how  to  think  upon 
this  subject."  This  fault,  if  I  am  right,  is  in  a  ten- 
thoiisandth  worse  degree  to  be  found  in  Sterne,  and  in 
many  novelists  and  modern  poets,  who  continually  put  a 
sign-post  up  to  show  where  you  are  to  feel.  They  set 
out  with  assuming  their  readers  to  be  stupid;  very 
different  from  Robinson  Crusoe,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
Roderick  Random,  and  other  beautiful,  bare  narratives. 
There  is  implied  an  unwritten  compact  between  author 
and  reader ;  "  I  will  tell  you  a  story,  and  I  suppose  you 
will  understand  it."  Modern  novels,  St.  Leons  and  the 
like,  are  full  of  such  flowers  as  these — "Let  not  my 
reader  suppose,"  "  Imagine,  if  you  can,  modest ! "  etc,  I 
will  here  have  done  with  praise  and  blame.  I  have 
written  so  much,  only  that  you  may  not  think  I  have 
passed  over  your  book  without  observation.  ...  I  am 
sorry  that  Coleridge  has  christened  his  Ancient  Marinere, 
ft  Poet's  Reverie;  it  is  as  bad  as  Bottom  the  Weaver'a 


164  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

declaration  that  he  is  not  a  lion,  but  only  the  scenical 
representatijn  of  a  lion.  What  new  idea  is  gained  by 
this  title  but  one  subversive  of  all  credit — which  the  tale 
should  force  upon  us — of  its  truth  ! 

For  me,  I  was  never  so  affected  with  any  human  tale. 
After  first  reading  it,  I  was  totally  possessed  with  it  for 
many  days.  I  dislike  all  the  miraculous  part  of  it ;  but 
the  feelings  of  the  man  under  the  operation  of  such  scenery, 
dragged  me  along  like  Tom  Pipe's  magic  whistle.  I  totally 
differ  from  your  idea  that  the  Marinere  should  have  had 
a  character  and  profession.  This  is  a  beauty  in  Gulliver's 
Travels,  where  the  mind  is  kept  in  a  placid  state  of  little 
wonderments ;  but  the  Ancient  Marinere  undergoes  such 
trials  as  overwhelm  and  bury  all  individuality  or  memory 
of  what  he  was — like  the  state  of  a  man  in  a  bad  dream, 
one  terrible  peculiarity  of  which  is,  that  all  consciousness 
of  personality  is  gone.  Your  other  observation  is,  I  think 
as  well,  a  little  unfounded  :  the  "  Marinere,"  from  being 
conversant  in  supernatural  events,  has  acquired  a  super- 
natural and  strange  cast  of  phrase,  eye,  appearance,  etc., 
which  frighten  the  "wedding  guest."  You  will  excuse 
my  remarks,  because  I  am  hurt  and  vexed  that  you  should 
think  it  necessary,  with  a  prose  apology,  to  open  the  eyes 
of  dead  men  that  cannot  see. 

To  sum  up  a  general  opinion  of  the  second  volume,  I 
do  not  feel  any  one  poem  in  it  so  forcibly  as  the  Ancient 
Marinere,  and  the  "  Mad  Mother,"  and  the  "  Lines  at 
Tintern  Abbey  "  in  the  first. 


LETTER  LXXVIIL]  January  30,  1801. 

I  ought  before  this  to  have  replied  to  your  very  kind 
invitation  into  Cumberland.  With  you  aud  your  sister 
I  could  gang  anywhere ;  but  I  am  afraid  whether  I  shall 
ever  be  able  to  afford  so  desperate  a  journey.  Separate 
from  the  pleasure  of  your  company,  I  don't  much  care  if  I 
never  see  a  mountain  in  my  life.  I  have  passed  all  my 
days  in  London,  until  I  have  formed  as  many  aud  intense 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  165 

local  attachments  as  any  of  you  mountaineers  can  have 
done  with  dead  Nature.  The  lighted  shops  of  the  Strand 
and  Fleet  Street ;  the  innumerable  trades,  tradesmen,  and 
customers,  coaches,  waggons,  playhouses ;  all  the  bustle 
and  wickedness  round  about  Covent  Garden;  the  very 
women  of  the  Town ;  the  watchmen,  drunken  scenes, 
rattles ;  life  awake,  if  you  awake,  at  all  hours  of  the  night ; 
the  impossibility  of  being  dull  in  Fleet  Street ;  the  crowds, 
the  very  dirt  and  mud,  the  sun  shining  upon  houses  and 
pavements,  the  print-shops,  the  old  bookstalls,  parsons 
cheapening  books,  coffee-houses,  steams  of  soups  from 
kitchens,  the  pantomimes — London  itself  a  pantomime 
and  a  masquerade — all  these  things  work  themselves  into 
my  mind,  and  feed  me,  without  a  power  of  satiating  me. 
The  wonder  of  these  sights  impels  me  into  night-walks 
about  her  crowded  streets,  and  I  often  shed  tears  in  the 
motley  Strand  from  fulness  of  joy  at  so  much  life.  All 
these  emotions  must  be  strange  to  you ;  so  are  your  rural 
emotions  to  me.  But  consider,  what  must  I  have  been 
doing  all  my  life,  not  to  have  lent  great  portions  of  my 
heart  with  usury  to  such  scenes  ? 

My  attachments  are  all  local,  purely  local.  I  have  no 
passion  (or  have  had  none  since  I  was  in  love,  and  then 
it  was  the  spurious  engendering  of  poetry  and  books)  for 
groves  and  valleys.  The  rooms  where  I  was  born,  the 
furniture  which  has  been  before  my  eyes  all  my  life,  a 
book-case  which  has  followed  me  about  like  a  faithful  dog, 
(only  exceeding  him  in  knowledge),  wherever  I  have 
moved,  old  chairs,  old  tables,  streets,  squares,  where  I 
have  sunned  myself,  my  old  school, — these  are  my 
mistresses.  Have  I  not  enough,  without  your  mountains? 
I  do  not  envy  you.  I  should  pity  you,  did  I  not  know 
that  the  mind  will  make  friends  of  anything.  Your  sun, 
and  moon,  and  skies,  and  hills,  and  lakes,  affect  me  no 
more,  or  scarcely  come  to  me  in  more  venerable  characters, 
than  as  a  gilded  room  with  tapestry  and  tapers,  where  I 
might  live  with  handsome  visible  objects.  I  consider  the 
clouds  above  me  but  as  a  roof  beautifully  painted,  but 


166  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

unable  to  satisfy  the  mind :  and  at  last,  like  the  pictures 
of  the  apartment  of  a  connoisseur,  unable  to  afford  him 
any  longer  a  pleasure.  So  fading  upon  me,  from  disuse, 
have  been  the  beauties  of  Nature,  as  they  have  been 
confinedly  called ;  so  ever  fresh,  and  green,  and  warm  are 
all  the  inventions  of  men,  and  assemblies  of  men  in  this 
great  city.  I  should  certainly  have  laughed  with  dear 
Joanna. 

Give  my  kindest  love,  and  my  sister's,  to  D.  and  your- 
self; and  a  kiss  from  me  to  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite 
Thank  you  for  liking  my  play.  0.  L. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LXXIX.]  [February  or  March}  1801. 

You  masters  of  logic  ought  to  know  (logic  is  nothing 
more  than  a  knowledge  of  words,  as  the  Greek  etymon 
implies)  that  all  words  are  no  more  to  be  taken  in  a 
literal  sense  at  all  times  than  a  promise  given  to  a  tailor. 
When  I  exprest  an  apprehension  that  you  were  mortally 
offended,  I  meant  no  more  than  by  the  application  of  a 
certain  formula  of  efficacious  sounds,  which  had  done  in 
similar  cases  before,  to  rouse  a  sense  of  decency  in  you, 
and  a  remembrance  of  what  was  due  to  me  !  You  masters 
of  logic  should  advert  to  this  phenomenon  in  human 
speech,  before  you  arraign  the  usage  of  us  dramatic 
geniuses.  Imagination  is  a  good  blood  mare,  and  goes 
well :  but  the  misfortune  is,  she  has  too  many  paths 
before  her.  'Tis  true  I  might  have  imagined  to  myself, 
that  you  had  trundled  your  frail  carcass  to  Norfolk.  I 
might  also,  and  did  imagine,  that  you  had  not,  but  that 
you  were  lazy,  or  inventing  new  properties  in  a  triangle, 
and  for  that  purpose  moulding  and  squeezing  Landlord 
Crisp's  three-cornered  beaver  into  fantastic  experimental 
forms ;  or,  that  Archimedes  was  meditating  to  repulse  the 
French,  in  case  of  a  Cambridge  invasion,  by  a  geometric 


TO  MANNING.  167 

hurling  of  folios  on  their  red  caps ;  or,  peradventure,  that 
you  were  in  extremities,  in  great  wants,  and  just  set  out 
for  Trinity  Bogs  when  my  letters  came.  In  short,  my 
genius  (which  is  a  short  word,  now-a-days,  for  what-a- 
great-rnan-am-I) !  was  absolutely  stifled  and  overlaid  with 
its  own  riches.  Truth  is  one  and  poor,  like  the  cruse  of 
Elijah's  widow.  Imagination  is  the  bold  face  that 
multiplies  its  oil ;  and  thou,  the  old  cracked  pipkin,  that 
could  not  believe  it  could  be  put  to  such  purposes.  Dull 
pipkin,  to  have  Elijah  for  thy  cook  !  Imbecile  recipient 
of  so  fat  a  miracle  !  I  send  you  George  Dyer's  Poems, 
the  richest  production  of  the  lyrical  muse  this  century 
can  justly  boast :  for  Wordsworth's  L.  B.  were  published, 
or  at  least  written,  before  Christmas. 

Please  to  advert  to  pages  291  to  296  for  the  most 
astonishing  account  of  where  Shakspeare's  muse  has  been 
all  this  while.  I  thought  she  had  been  dead,  and  buried 
in  Stratford  Church,  with  the  young  man  that  kept  her 
company, — 

**  But  it  seems,  like  the  Devil, 

Buried  in  Cole  Harbour, 
Some  say  she's  risen  again, 
'Gone  prentice  to  a  barber." 

N.B. — I  don't  charge  anything  for  the  additional 
manuscript  notes,  which  are  the  joint  productions  of  myself 
and  a  learned  translator  of  Schiller,  John  Stoddart,  Esq. 

N.B.  the  2d. — I  should  not  have  blotted  your  book, 
but  I  had  sent  my  own  out  to  be  bound,  as  I  was  in  duty 
bound.  A  liberal  criticism  upon  the  several  pieces, 
lyrical,  heroical,  amatory,  and  satirical,  would  be  accept- 
able. So,  you  don't  think  there's  a  Word's — worth  of 
good  poetry  in  the  great  L.  B.  !  I  daren't  put  the 
dreaded  syllables  at  their  just  length,  for  my  back  tingles 
from  the  northern  castigation.  I  send  yoii  the  three 
letters,  which  I  beg  you  to  return  along  with  those 
former  letters  (which  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  print, 


168  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

by  your  detention).  But  don't  be  in  a  huiry  to  send 
them.  When  you  come  to  town  will  do.  Apropos  of 
coming  to  town  :  Last  Sunday  was  a  fortnight,  as  I 
was  coming  to  town  from  the  .Professor's,  inspired  with 
new  rum,  I  tumbled  down  and  broke  my  nose.  I  drink 
nothing  stronger  than  malt  liquors. 

I  am  going  to  change  my  lodgings,  having  received 
a  hint  that  it  would  be  agreeable,  at  our  Lady's  next 
feast.  I  have  partly  fixed  upon  most  delectable  rooms, 
which  look  out  (when  you  stand  a  tip- toe)  over  the 
Thames  and  Surrey  Hills ;  at  the  upper  end  of  King's 
Bench  Walks,  in  the  Temple.  There  I  shall  have  all 
the  privacy  of  a  house  without  the  encumbrance,  and 
shall  be  able  to  lock  my  friends  out  as  often  as  I  desire 
to  hold  free  converse  with  my  immortal  mind ;  for  my 
present  lodgings  resemble  a  minister's  levee,  I  have  so 
increased  my  acquaintance  (as  they  call  'em)  since  I  have 
resided  in  town.  Like  the  country  mouse,  that  had 
tasted  a  little  of  urbane  manners,  I  long  to  be  nibbling 
my  own  cheese  by  my  dear  self,  without  mouse-traps 
and  time-traps.  By  my  new  plan,  I  shall  be  as  airy,  up 
four  pair  of  stairs,  as  in  the  country ;  and  in  a  garden, 
in  the  midst  of  enchanting  (more  than  Mahometan 
paradise)  London,  whose  dirtiest  drab-frequented  alley, 
and  her  lowest  bowing  tradesman,  I  would  not  exchange 
for  Skiddaw,  Helvellyn,  James,  Walter,  and  the  parson 
into  the  bargain.  0  her  lamps  of  a  night !  her  rich 
goldsmiths,  print-shops,  toy-shops,  mercers,  hardwaremen, 
pastry-cooks,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  the  Strand,  Exeter 
Change,  Charing  Cross,  with  the  man  upon  a  black 
horse !  These  are  thy  gods,  0  London  !  A'nt  you 
mightily  moped  on  the  banks  of  the  Cam  ?  Had  you 
not  better  come  and  set  up  here  1  You  can't  think  what 
a  difference.  All  the  streets  and  pavements  are  pure 
gold,  I  warrant  you.  At  least,  I  know  an  alchemy  that 
turns  her  mud  into  that  metal, — a  mind  that  loves  to  be 
at  home  in  crowds. 

'Tis  half-past  twelve  o'clock,   and  all   sober  people 


TO  MANNING.  169 

ought  to  be  a-bed.     Between  you  and  me  the  L.  Ballads 
are  but  drowsy  performances. 

C.  LAMB  (as  you  may  guess). 

LETTEB  LXXX.]  April  1801. 

I  was  not  aware  that  you  owed  me  anything  beside 
that  guinea ;  but  I  daresay  you  are  right.  I  live  at  No. 
1 6  Mitre  Court  Buildings,  a  pistol-shot  off  Baron  Maseres'. 
You  must  introduce  me  to  the  Baron.  I  think  we  should 
suit  one  another  mainly.  He  lives  on  the  ground  floor, 
for  convenience  of  the  gout ;  I  prefer  the  attic  story,  for 
the  air.  He  keeps  three  footmen  and  two  maids ;  I  have 
neither  maid  nor  laundress,  not  caring  to  be  troubled 
with  them.  His  forte,  I  understand,  is  the  higher  mathe- 
matics ;  my  turn,  I  confess,  is  more  to  poetry  and  the 
belles  lettres.  The  very  antithesis  of  our  characters  would 
make  up  a  harmony.  You  must  bring  the  Baron  and  me 
together.  N.B. — When  you  come  to  see  me,  mount  up  to 
the  top  of  the  stairs — I  hope  you  are  not  asthumtical — 
and  come  in  flannel,  for  'tis  pure  airy  up  there.  And 
bring  your  glass,  and  I  will  show  you  the  Surrey  Hills. 
My  bed  faces  the  river,  so  as  by  perking  up  upon  my 
haunches,  and  supporting  my  carcass  with  my  elbows, 
without  much  wrying  my  neck,  I  can  see  the  white  sails 
glide  by  the  bottom  of  the  King's  Bench  Walks  as  I  lie 
in  my  bed.  An  excellent  tiptoe  prospect  in  the  best 
room : — casement  windows,  with  small  panes,  to  look 
more  like  a  cottage.  Mind,  I  have  got  no  bed  for  you, 
that's  flat ;  sold  it  to  pay  expenses  of  moving, — the  very 
bed  on  which  Manning  lay;  the  friemlly,  the  mathematical 
Manning  !  How  forcibly  does  it  remind  me  of  the  inter- 
esting Otway  !  "  The  very  bed  which  on  thy  marriage 
night  gave  thee  into  the  arms  of  Belvidera,  by  the  coarse 
hands  of  ruffians — "  (upholsterers'  men),  etc.  My  tears 
will  not  give  me  leave  to  go  on.  But  a  bed  I  will  get 
you,  Manning,  on  condition  you  will  be  my  day-guest. 

I  have  been  ill  more  than  month,  with  a  bad  cold, 


170  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  T,AMK. 

•which  comes  upon  me  (like  a  murderer's  conscience)  about 
midnight,  .and  vexes  me  for  many  hours.  I  have  succes- 
sively been  drugged  with  Spanish  licorice,  opium,  ipecacu- 
anha, paregoric,  and  tincture  of  foxglove  (tinctura  purpurse 
digitalis  of  the  ancients).  I  ain  afraid  I  must  leave  oil 
drinking. 


To  WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

LETTER  LXXXL]  June  29,  1801. 

Dear  Sir — Dr.  Christy's  Brother  and  Sister  are  come 
to  town  and  have  shown  me  great  civilities.  I  in  return 
wish  to  requite  them,  having,  by  God's  grace,  principles 
of  generosity  implanted  (as  the  moralists  say)  in  my 
nature,  which  have  been  duly  cultivated  and  watered  by 
good  and  religious  friends,  and  a  pious  education.  They 
have  picked  up  in  the  northern  parts  of  the  island  an 
astonishing  admiration  of  the  great  author  of  the  New 
Philosophy  in  England,  and  I  have  ventured  to  promise 
their  taste  an  evening's  gratification  by  seeing  Mr.  Godwin 
face  to  face  /  /  /  /  /  Will  you  do  them,  and  me  in  them, 
the  pleasure  of  drinking  tea  and  supping  with  me  at  the 
old  number  16  on  Friday  or  Saturday  next1?  An  early 
nomination  of  the  day  will  very  much  oblige  yours 
sincerely,  CH.  LAMB. 


To  MR.  WALTER  WILSON. 

LETTER  LXXXII.]  August,  i4,  1801. 

Dear  Wilson — I  am  extremely  sorry  that  any  serious 
differences  should  subsist  between  us,  on  account  of  some 
foolish  behaviour  of  mine  at  Richmond;  you  knew  me 
well  enough  before,  that  a  very  little  liquor  will  cause  a 
considerable  alteration  in  me. 


TO  MANNING.  171 

I  beg  you  to  impute  my  conduct  solely  to  that,  and 
not  to  any  deliberate  intention  of  offending  you,  from 
whom  I  have  received  so  many  friendly  attentions.  I 
know  that  you  think  a  very  important  difference  in  opinion 
with  respect  to  some  more  serious  subjects  between  us 
makes  ine  a  dangerous  companion;  but  do  not  rashly 
infer,  from  some  slight  and  light  expressions  which  I  may 
have  made  use  of  in  a  moment  of  levity,  in  your  presence, 
without  sufficient  regard  to  your  feelings — do  not  conclude 
that  I  am  an  inveterate  enemy  to  all  religion.  I  have 
had  a  time  of  seriousness,  and  I  have  known  the  import- 
ance and  reality  of  a  religious  belief.  Latterly,  I  acknow- 
ledge, much  of  my  seriousness  has  gone  off,  whether  from 
new  company,  or  some  other  new  associations ;  but  I  still 
retain  at  bottom  a  conviction  of  the  truth,  and  a  certainty 
of  the  usefulness  of  religion.  I  will  not  pretend  to  more 
gravity  or  feeling  than  I  at  present  possess ;  my  intention 
is  not  to  persuade  you  that  any  great  alteration  is  probable 
in  me ;  sudden  converts  are  superficial  and  transitory ;  I 
only  want  you  to  believe  that  I  have  stamina  of  serious- 
ness within  me,  and  that  I  desire  nothing  more  than  a 
return  of  that  friendly  intercourse  which  used  to  subsist 
between  us,  but  which  my  folly  has  suspended. 

Believe  me,  very  affectionately  yours,         C.  LAMB. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LXXXIIL]  [August}  1801. 

Dear  Manning — I  have  forborne  writing  so  long  (and 
so  have  you  for  the  matter  of  that),  until  I  am  almost 
ashamed  either  to  write  or  to  forbear  any  longer.  But 
as  your  silence  may  proceed  from  some  worse  cause  than 
neglect — from  illness,  or  some  mishap  which  may  have 
befallen  you,  I  begin  to  be  anxious.  You  may  have  been 
burnt  out,  or  you  may  have  married,  or  you  may  have 


172  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

broken  a  limb,  or  turned  country  parson  :  ai  y  of  these 
would  be  excuse  sufficient  for  not  coming  to  my  supper. 
I  am  not  so  unforgiving  as  the  nobleman  in  Saint  Mark. 
For  me,  nothing  new  has  happened  to  me,  unless  that  the 
poor  Albion  died  last  Saturday  of  the  world's  neglect,  and 
with  it  the  fountain  of  my  puns  is  choked  up  for  ever. 

All  the  Lloyds  wonder  that  you  do  not  write  to  them. 
They  apply  to  me  for  the  cause.  Relieve  me  from  this 
weight  of  ignorance,  and  enable  me  to  give  a  truly  oracular 
response. 

I  have  been  confined  some  days  with  swelled  cheek  and 
rheumatism  :  they  divide  and  govern  me  with  a  viceroy- 
headache  in  the  middle.  I  can  neither  write  nor  read 
without  great  pain.  It  must  be  something  like  obstinacy 
that  I  choose  this  time  to  write  to  you  in  after  many 
months'  interruption. 

I  will  close  my  letter  of  simple  inquiry  with  an  epigram 
on  Mackintosh,  the  Vindicice  Gallicce  man — who  has  got 
a  place  at  last — one  of  the  last  I  did  for  the  Albion  : — 

"  Though  thou'rt  like  Judas,  an  apostate  black, 
In  the  resemblance  one  thing  thou  dost  lack  : 
When  he  had  gotten  his  ill-purchased  pelf, 
He  went  away,  and  wisely  hang'd  himself : 
This  thou  may'st  do  at  last ;  yet  much  I  doubt, 
If  thou  hast  any  bowels  to  gush  out  1 " 

Yours,  as  ever,  C  LAMB. 


LETTER  LXXXIV.]  August  31,  1801. 

I  heard  that  you  were  going  to  China,  with  a  commis- 
sion from  the  Wedgwoods  to  collect  hints  for  their  pottery, 
and  to  teach  the  Chinese  perspective  ;  but  I  did  not  know 
that  London  lay  in  your  way  to  Pekin.  I  am  seriously 
glad  of  it,  for  I  shall  trouble  you  with  a  small  present  for 
the  Emperor  of  Usbeck  Tartary,  as  you  go  by  his  terri- 
tories :  it  is  a  fragment  of  a  "Dissertation  on  the  state 
of  political  parties  in  England  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century,"  which  will  no  doubt  be  very  interesting  to  his 


TO  MANNING.  173 

Imperial  Majesty.  It  was  written  originally  in  English 
for  the  use  of  the  two  and  twenty  readers  of  the  Albion 
(this  calculation  includes  a  printer,  four  pressmen,  and  a 
devil) ;  but  becoming  of  no  use  when  the  Albion  stopped, 
I  got  it  translated  into  Usbeck  Tartar  by  my  good  friend 
Tibet  Kulm,  who  is  to  corne  to  London  with  a  civil 
invitation  from  the  Cham  to  the  English  nation  to  go 
over  to  the  worship  of  the  Lama. 

The  Albion  is  dead — dead  as  nail  in  door — and  my 
revenues  have  died  with  it ;  but  I  am  not  as  a  man 
without  hope.  I  have  got  a  sort  of  opening  to  the 
Morning  Chronicle,  by  means  of  that  common  dispenser 
of  benevolence,  Mister  Dyer.  I  have  not  seen  Perry, 
the  editor,  yet :  but  I  am  preparing  a  specimen.  I  shall 
have  a  difficult  job  to  manage,  for  you  must  know  that 
Mr.  Perry,  in  common  with  the  great  body  of  the  Whigs, 
thinks  the  Albion  very  low.  I  find  I  must  rise  a  peg  or 
so,  be  a  little  more  decent,  and  less  abusive ;  for,  to 
confess  the  truth,  I  had  arrived  to  an  abominable  pitch  ; 
I  spared  neither  age  nor  sex  when  my  cue  was  given  me. 
N'importe  (as  they  say  in  French),  any  climate  will  suit 
me.  So  you  are  about  to  bring  your  old  face-making  face 
to  London.  You  could  not  come  in  a  better  time  for  my 
purposes ;  for  I  have  just  lost  Rickman,  a  faint  idea  of 
whose  character  I  sent  you.  He  has  gone  to  Ireland  for 
a  year  or  two  to  make  his  fortune ;  and  I  have  lost  by 
his  going  what  seems  to  me  I  can  never  recover — a 
finished  man.  His  memory  will  be  to  me  as  the  brazen 
serpent  to  the  Israelites, — I  shall  look  up  to  it,  to  keep 
me  upright  and  honest.  But  he  may  yet  bring  back  his 
honest  face  to  England  one  day.  I  wish  your  affairs 
with  the  Emperor  of  China  had  not  been  so  urgent,  that 
you  might  have  stayed  in  Great  Britain  a  year  or  two 
longer,  to  have  seen  him ;  for,  judging  from  my  own 
experience,  I  almost  dare  pronounce  you  never  saw  his 
equal.  I  never  saw  a  man  that  could  be  at  all  a  second 
or  substitute  for  him  in  any  sort. 

Imagine  that  what  is  here  erased  was  an  apology  and 


174  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

explanation,  perfectly  satisfactory  you  may  be  sure  for 

rating  this  man  so  highly  at  the  expense  of ,  and 

,  and ,  and  M ,  and  ,  and  ,  and 

.     But  Mr.  Burke  has  explained  this  phenomenon  of 

our  nature  very  prettily  in  his  letter  to  a  Member  of  the 
National  Assembly,  or  else  in  Appeal  to  the  old  Whigs,  I 
forget  which.  Do  you  remember  an  instance  from  Homer 
(who  understood  these  matters  tolerably  well),  of  Priam 
driving  away  his  other  sons  with  expressions  of  wrath  and 
bitter  reproach,  when  Hector  was  just  dead  ? 

I  live  where  I  did,  in  a  private  manner,  because  I 
don't  like  state.  Nothing  is  so  disagreeable  to  me  as  the 
clamours  and  applauses  of  the  mob.  For  this  reason  I 
live  in  an  obscure  situation  in  one  of  the  courts  of  the 
Temple.  C.  L. 

I  send  you  all  of  Coleridge's  letters  to  me,  which  I 
have  preserved :  some  of  them  are  upon  the  subject  of 
my  play.  I  also  send  you  Kemble's  two  letters,  and  the 
prompter's  courteous  epistle,  with  a  curious  critique  on 
"Pride's  Cure,"  by  a  young  physician  from  EDINBRO', 
who  modestly  suggests  quite  another  kind  of  a  plot. 
These  are  monuments  of  my  disappointment  which  I  like 
to  preserve. 

In  Coleridge's  letters  you  will  find  a  good  deal  of 
amusement,  to  see  genuine  talent  struggling  against  a 
pompous  display  of  it.  I  also  send  you  the  Professor's 
letter  to  fne  (careful  Professor !  to  conceal  his  name  even 
from  his  correspondent),  ere  yet  the  Professor's  pride  was 
cured.  Oh  monstrous  and  almost  satanical  pride  ! 

You  will  carefully  keep  all  (except  the  Scotch  Doctor's, 
which  burn)  in  statu  guot  till  I  come  to  claim  mine 
own.  0.  LAMB. 


TO  GODWIN.  175 


To  WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

LETTER  LXXXV.  ]  [Afargi  te  1}  September  9,  1801. 

Dear  Sir — Nothing  runs  in  my  head  when  I  think  of 
your  story,  but  that  you  should  make  it  as  like  the  life  of 
Savage  as  possible.  That  is  a  known  and  familiar  tale, 
and  its  effect  on  the  public  mind  has  been  very  great. 
Many  of  the  incidents  in  the  true  history  are  readily  made 
dramatical.  For  instance,  Savage  used  to  walk  backwards 
and  forwards  o'  nights  to  his  mother's  window,  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her,  as  she  passed  with  a  candle.  With  some 
such  situation  the  play  might  happily  open.  I  would 
plunge  my  Hero,  exactly  like  Savage,  into  difficulties  and 
embarrassments,  the  consequences  of  an  unsettled  mind  : 
out  of  which  he  may  be  extricated  by  the  unknown  inter- 
ference of  his  mother.  He  should  be  attended  from  the 
beginning  by  a  Friend,  who  should  stand  in  much  the 
same  relation  towards  him  as  Horatio  to  Altamont  in  the 
play  of  the  "  Fair  Penitent."  A  character  of  this  sort 
seems  indispensable.  This  Friend  might  gain  interviews 
with  the  mother,  when  the  son  was  refused  sight  of  her. 
Like  Horatio  with  Calista,  he  might  wring  her  soul.  Like 
Horatio,  he  might  learn  the  secret  first.  He  might  be 
exactly  in  the  same  perplexing  situation,  when  he  had 
learned  it,  whether  to  tell  it  or  conceal  it  from  the  Son  (I 
have  still  Savage  in  my  head),  who  might  kill  a  man  (as  he 
did)  in  an  affray — he  should  receive  a  pardon,  as  Savage 
did — and  the  mother  might  interfere  to  have  him  banished. 
This  should  provoke  the  friend  to  demand  an  interview 
with  her  husband,  and  disclose  the  whole  secret.  The 
husband,  refusing  to  believe  anything  to  her  dishonour, 
should  fight  with  him.  The  husband  repents  before  he 
dies.  The  mother  explains  and  confesses  everything  in 
his  presence.  The  son  is  admitted  to  an  interview  with 
his  now  acknowledged  mother.  Instead  of  embraces,  she 


176  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

resolves  to  abstract  herself  from  all  pleasure,  even  from 
his  sight,  iu  voluntary  penance  all  her  days  after.  This 
is  crude  indeed ! !  but  I  am  totally  unable  to  suggest  a 
better.  I  am  the  worst  hand  in  the  world  at  a  plot. 
But  I  understand  enough  of  passion  to  predict  that  your 
story,  with  some  of  Savage's,  which  has  no  repugnance, 
but  a  natural  alliance  with  it,  cannot  fail.  The  mystery 
of  the  suspected  relationship — the  suspicion,  generated 
from  slight  and  forgotten  circumstances,  coming  at  last  to 
act  as  Instinct,  and  so  to  be  mistaken  for  Instinct — the 
son's  unceasing  pursuit  and  throwing  of  himself  in  Iris 
mother's  way,  something  like  Falkland's  eternal  persecu- 
tion of  Williams — the  high  and  intricate  passion  in  the 
mother,  the  being  obliged  to  shun  and  keep  at  a  distance 
the  thing  nearest  to  her  heart — to  be  cruel,  where  her 
heart  yearns  to  be  kind,  without  a  possibility  of  explana- 
tion. You  have  the  power  of  life  and  death  and  the 
hearts  of  your  auditors  in  your  hands — still  Harris  will 
want  a  skeleton,  and  he  must  have  it.  I  can  only  put  in 
some  sorry  hints.  The  discovery  to  the  son's  friend  may 
take  place  not  before  the  third  act — in  some  such  way  as 
this.  The  mother  may  cross  the  street — he  may  point 
her  out  to  some  gay  companion  of  his  as.  the  Beatity  of 
Leghorn — the  pattern  for  wives,  etc.  etc.  His  companion, 
who  is  an  Englishman,  laughs  at  his  mistake,  and  knows 
her  to  have  been  the  famous  Nancy  Dawson,  or  any  one 
else,  who  captivated  the  English  king.  Some  such  way 
seems  dramatic,  and  speaks  to  the  Eye.  The  audience 
will  enter  into  the  Friend's  surprise  and  into  the  perplexity 
of  his  situation.  These  Ocular  Scenes  are  so  many  great 
landmarks,  rememberable  headlands  and  lighthouses  in 
the  voyage.  Macbeth's  witch  has  a  good  advice  to  a 
tragic  writer,  what  to  do  with  his  spectator. 

"  Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart." 

The  most  difficult  thing  seems  to  be,  What  to  do  with 
the  husband  1  You  will  not  make  him  jealous  of  his  own 
son  1  that  is  a  stale  and  an  unpleasant  trick  in  Douglas, 


TO  GODWIN.  177 

etc.  Can't  you  keep  him  out  of  the  way  till  you  want 
him,  as  the  husband  of  Isabella  is  conveniently  sent  off 
till  his  cue  comes  1  There  will  be  story  enough  without 
him,  and  he  will  only  puzzle  all.  Catastrophes  are  worst 
of  all.  Mine  is  most  stupid.  I  only  propose  it  to  fulfil 
my  engagement,  not  in  hopes  to  convert  you. 

It  is  always  difficult  to  get  rid  of  a  woman  at  the  end 
of  a  tragedy.  Men  may  fight  and  die.  A  woman  must 
either  take  poison,  which  is  a  nasty  trick,  or  go  mad, 
which  is  not  fit  to  be  shown — or  retire,  which  is  poor : 
only  retiring  is  most  reputable. 

I  am  sorry  I  can  furnish  you  no  better :  but  I  find  it 
extremely  difficult  to  settle  my  thoughts  upon  anything 
but  the  scene  before  me,  when  I  am  from  home :  I  am 
from  home  so  seldom.  If  any  the  least  hint  crosses  me, 
I  will  write  again,  and  I  very  much  wish  to  read  your 
plan,  if  you  could  abridge  and  send  it.  In  this  little 
scrawl  you  must  take  the  will  for  tne  deed,  for  I  most 
sincerely  wish  success  to  your  play. — Farewell, 

C.  L. 

LETTER  LXXXVL]  Margate,  September  17, 1801. 

[Fragment.] 

I  shall  be  glad  to  come  home  and  talk  these  matters 
over  with  you.  I  have  read  your  scheme  very  attentively. 
That  Arabella  has  been  mistress  to  King  Charles  is  suf- 
ficient to  all  the  purposes  of  the  story.  It  can  only 
diminish  that  respect  we  feel  for  her  to  make  her  turn 
whore  to  one  of  the  Lords  of  his  Bedchamber.  Her  son 
must  not  know  that  she  has  been  a  whore :  it  matters 
not  that  she  has  been  whore  to  a  King :  equally  in  both 
cases,  it  is  against  decorum  and  against  the  delicacy  of  a 
son's  respect  that  he  should  be  privy  to  it.  No  doubt, 
many  sons  might  feel  a  wayward  pleasure  in  the  honourable 
guilt  of  their  mothers ;  but  is  it  a  true  feeling  ?  Is  it  the 
best  sort  of  feeling?  Is  it  a  feeling  to  be  exposed  on 
theatres  to  mothers  and  daughters  1  Your  conclusion  (01 
N 


178  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

rather  Defoe's)  conies  far  short  of  the  tragic  ending,  which 
is  always  expected ;  and  it  is  not  safe  to  disappoint.  A 
tragic  auditory  wants  blood.  They  care  but  little  about 
a  man  and  his  wife  parting.  Besides,  what  will  you  do 
with  the  son,  after  all  his  pursuits  and  adventures  1  Even 
quietly  leave  him  to  take  guinea-and-a-half  lodgings  with 
mamma  in  Leghorn  !  0  impotent  and  pacific  measures  ! 
...  I  am  certain  that  you  must  mix  up  some  strong 
ingredients  of  distress  to  give  a  savour  to  your  pottage. 
I  still  think  that  you  may,  and  must,  graft  the  story  of 
Savage  upon  Defoe.  Your  hero  must  kill  a  man  or  do 
something.  Can't  you  bring  him  to  the  gallows  or  some 
great  mischief,  out  of  which  she  must  have  recourse  to  an 
explanation  with  her  husband  to  save  him.  Think  on  this. 
The  husband,  for  instance,  has  great  friends  in  Court  at 
Leghorn.  The  son  is  condemned  to  death.  She  cannot 
tease  him  for  a  stranger.  She  must  tell  the  whole  truth. 
Or  she  may  tease  him,  as  for  a  stranger,  till  (like  Othello 
in  Cassio's  case)  he  begins  to  suspect  her  for  her  impor- 
tunity. Or,  being  pardoned,  can  she  not  tease  her 
husband  to  get  him  banished?  Something  of  this  I 
suggested  before.  Both  is  best.  The  murder  and  the 
pardon  will  make  business  for  the  fourth  act,  and  the 
banishment  and  explanation  (by  means  of  the  Friend  I 
want  you  to  draw)  the  fifth.  You  must  not  open  any  of 
the  truth  to  Dawley  by  means  of  a  letter.  A  letter  is  a 
feeble  messenger  on  the  stage.  Somebody,  the  son  or  his 
friend,  must,  as  a  coup  de  main,  be  exasperated,  and 
obliged  to  tell  the  husband.  Damn  the  husband  and  his 
"  gentlemanlike  qualities."  Keep  him  out  of  sight,  or  he 
will  trouble  all.  Let  him  be  in  England  on  trade,  and 
come  home  as  Biron  does  in  Isabella,  in  the  fourth  act, 
when  he  is  wanted.  I  am  for  introducing  situations,  sort 
of  counterparts  to  situations  which  have  been  tried  in 
other  plays — like,  but  not  the  same.  On  this  principle  I 
recommended  a  friend  like  Horatio  in  the  "Fair  Penitent," 
and  on  this  principle  I  recommend  a  situation  like  Othello, 
with  relation  to  Desdemona's  intercession  for  Cassio, 


TO  MANNING.  179 

Bye-scenes  may  likewise  receive  hints.  The  son  may  see 
his  mother  at  a  mask  or  Feast,  as  Borneo,  Juliet.  The 
festivity  of  the  company  contrasts  with  the  strong  per- 
turbations of  the  individuals.  Dawley  may  be  told  his 
wife's  past  unchastity  at  a  mask  by  some  witch-character, 
as  Macbeth  upon  the  heath,  in  dark  sentences..  This 
may  stir  his  brain,  and  be  forgot,  but  come  in  aid  of 
stronger  proof  hereafter.  From  this  what  you  will  perhaps 
call  whimsical  way  of  counterparting,  this  honest  stealing, 
and  original  mode  of  plagiarism,  much  yet,  I  think,  re- 
mains to  be  sucked.  Excuse  these  abortions.  I  thought 
you  would  want  the  draught  soon  again,  and  I  would  not 
send  it  empty  away. — Yours  truly, 

WILLIAM  GOD  WIN  11 1 
Somers  Town,  September  17,  1801. 

To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  LXXXVIL]  February  15,  1802. 

Apropos,  I  think  you  wrong  about  my  play.  All  the 
omissions  are  right.  And  the  supplementary  scene,  in 
which  Sandford  narrates  the  manner  in  which  his  master 
is  affected,  is  the  best  in  the  book.  It  stands  where  a 
hodge-podge  of  German  puerilities  used  to  stand.  I  insist 
upon  it  that  you  like  that  scene.  Love  me,  love  that 
scene.  I  will  now  transcribe  the  "  Londoner  "  (No.  1), 
and  wind  up  all  with  affection  and  humble  servant  at 
the  end. 

[Here  was  transcribed  the  essay  called  "The  Londoner," 
which  was  published  some  years  afterwards  in  the  Reflector, 
and  which  forms  part  of  Lamb's  collected  works.  He 
then  proceeds]  : — 

"What  is  all  this  about?"  said  Mrs.  Shandy.  "A 
story  of  a  cock  and  a  bull,"  said  Yorick :  and  so  it  is ; 
but  Manning  will  take  good-naturedly  what  God  will 
send  him  across  the  water :  only  Phope  he  won't  shut  his 
eyes,  and  open  his  mouth,  as  the  children  say,  for  that  ia 


180  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  way  to  gape,  and  not  to  read.  Manning,  continue 
your  laudable  purpose  of  making  me  your  register.  I 
will  render  you  back  all  your  remarks  ;  and  /,  not  you, 
shall  have  received  usury  by  having  read  them.  In  the 
meantime,  may  the  great  Spirit  have  you  in  his  keeping, 
and  preserve  our  Englishmen  from  the  inoculation  of 
frivolity  and  sin  upon  French  earth. 

Allans — or  what  is  it  you  say,  instead  of  good-bye  ? 

Mary  sends  her  kind  remembrance,  and  covets  the 
remarks  equally  with  me.  C.  LAMB. 

To  MR.  RICKMAN. 

LETTER  LXXXVIIL]  April  10,  1802. 

Dear  Rickman — The  enclosed  letter  explains  itself. 
It  will  save  me  the  danger  of  a  corporal  interview  with 
the  man-eater,  who,  if  very  sharp  set,  may  take  a  fancy 
to  me,  if  you  will  give  me  a  short  note,  declaratory  of 
probabilities.  These  from  him  who  hopes  to  see  you 
once  or  twice  more  before  he  goes  hence,  to  be  no  more 
seen :  for  there  is  no  tipple  nor  tobacco  in  the  grave, 
whereunto  he  hasteneth.  C.  LAMB. 

16,  Mitre  Court  Buildings, 
Inner  Temple. 

How  clearly  the  Ghoul  writes,  and  like  a  gentleman  I 

To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  LXXXIX.]  September  8,  1802. 

Dear  Coleridge — I  thought  of  not  writing  till  we  had 
performed  some  of  our  commissions ;  but  we  have  been 
hindered  from  setting  about  them,  which  yet  shall  be 
done  to  a  tittle.  We  got  home  very  pleasantly  on  Sunday. 
Mary  is  a  good  deal  fatigued,  and  finds  the  difference  of 
going  to  a  place,  and  coming  from  it.  I  feel  that  I  shall 
remember  your  mountains  to  the  last  day  I  live.  They 
haunt  me  perpetually.  I  am  like  a  man  who  has  been 


TO  MANNING.  181 

falling  in  love  unknown  to  himself,  which  he  finds  out 
when  he  leaves  the  lady.  I  do  not  remember  any  very 
strong  impression  while  they  were  present ;  but,  being 
gone,  their  mementos  are  shelved  in  my  brain.  We 
passed  a  very  pleasant  little  tune  with  the  Clarksons. 
The  Wordsworths  are  at  Montagu's  rooms,  near  neigh- 
bours to  us.  They  dined  with  us  yesterday,  and  I  was 
their  guide  to  Bartlemy  Fair ! 

To  MRS.  GODWIN. 

LETTER  XC.]  [Early  in  September  1802  ?] 

Dear  Mrs.  G. — Having  observed  with  some  concern 
that  Mr.  Godwin  is  a  little  fastidious  in  what  he  eats  for 
supper,  I  herewith  beg  to  present  his  palate  with  a  piece 
of  dried  salmon.  I  am  assured  it  is  the  best  that  swims 
in  Trent.  If  you  do  not  know  how  to  dress  it,  allow  me 
to  add,  that  it  should  be  cut  in  thin  slices  and  boiled  in 
paper  previously  prepared  in  butter.  Wishing  it  exquisite, 
I  remain, — Much  as  before,  yours  sincerely, 

C.  LAMB. 
Some  add  mashed  potatoes. 

To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  XCI.]  London,  September  24,  1802. 

My  dear  Manning — Since  the  date  of  my  last  letter 
I  have  been  a  traveller.  A  strong  desire  seized  me  of 
visiting  remote  regions.  My  first  impulse  was  to  go  and 
see  Paris.  It  was  a  trivial  objection  to  my  aspiring  mind, 
that  I  did  not  understand  a  word  of  the  language,  since 
I  certainly  intend  some  time  in  my  life  to  see  Paris,  and 
equally  certainly  intend  never  to  learn  the  language; 
therefore  that  could  be  no  objection.  However,  I  am 
very  glad  I  did  not  go,  because  you  had  left  Paris  (I  see) 
before  I  could  have  set  out.  I  believe,  Stoddart  promising 
to  go  with  me  another  year,  prevented  that  plan.  My 


182  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

next  scheme  (for  to  my  restless,  ambitious  mind  London 
was  become  a  bed  of  thorns)  was  to  visit  the  far-famed 
peak  in  Derbyshire,  where  the  Devil  sits,  they  say,  with- 
out breeches.  This  my  purer  mind  rejected  as  indelicate. 
And  my  final  resolve  was,  a  tour  to  the  Lakes.  I  set 
out  with  Mary  to  Keswick,  without  giving  Coleridge  any 
notice,  for  my  time,  being  precious,  did  not  admit  of  it. 
He  received  us  with  all  the  hospitality  in  the  world,  and 
gave  up  his  time  to  show  us  all  the  wonders  of  the  country. 
He  dwells  upon  a  small  hill  by  the  side  of  Keswick,  in  a 
comfortable  house,  quite  enveloped  on  all  sides  by  a  net 
of  mountains  :  great  floundering  bears  and  monsters  they 
seemed,  all  couchant  and  asleep.  We  got  in  in  the  even- 
ing, travelling  in  a  post-chaise  from  Penrith,  in  the  midst 
of  a  gorgeous  sunshine,  which  transmuted  all  the  mount- 
ains into  colours,  purple,  etc.  etc.  We  thought  we  had 
got  into  fairyland.  But  that  went  off  (as  it  never  came 
again ;  while  we  stayed  we  had  no  more  fine  sunsets), 
and  we  entered  Coleridge's  comfortable  study  just  in  the 
dusk,  when  the  mountains  were  all  dark  with  clouds  upon 
their  heads.  Such  an  impression  I  never  received  from 
objects  of  sight  before,  nor  do  I  suppose  I  can  ever  again. 
Glorious  creatures,  fine  old  fellows,  Skiddaw,  etc.  I 
never  shall  forget  ye,  how  ye  lay  about  that  night,  like 
an  intrenchment ;  gone  to  bed,  as  it  seemed  for  the  night, 
but  promising  that  ye  were  to  be  seen  in  the  morning. 
Coleridge  had  got  a  blazing  fire  in  his  study ;  which  is  a 
large  antique,  ill-shaped  room,  with  an  old-fashioned  organ, 
never  played  upon,  big  enough  for  a  church,  shelves  of 
scattered  folios,  an  .^Eolian  harp,  and  an  old  sofa,  half 
bed,  etc.  And  all  looking  out  upon  the  last  fading  view 
of  Skiddaw,  and  his  broad -breasted  brethren  :  what  a 
night !  Here  we  stayed  three  full  weeks,  in  which  time 
I  visited  Wordsworth's  cottage,  where  we  stayed  a  day 
or  two  with  the  Clarksons  (good  people,  and  most  hospit- 
able, at  whose  house  we  tarried  one  day  and  night),  and 
saw  Lloyd.  The  Wordsworths  were  gone  to  Calais. 
They  have  since  been  in  London,  and  past  much  tima 


TO  MANNING.  183 

with  us :  he  is  now  gone  into  Yorkshire  to  be  married. 
So  we  have  seen  Keswick,  Grasmere,  Ambleside,  Ulswater 
(where  the  Clarksons  live),  and  a  place  at  the  other  end 
of  Ulswater ;  I  forget  the  name ;  to  which  we  travelled 
on  a  very  sultry  day,  over  the  middle  of  Helvellyn.  We 
have  clambered  up  to  the  top  of  Skiddaw,  and  I  have 
waded  up  the  bed  of  Lodore.  In  fine,  I  have  satisfied 
myself  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  that  which  tourists 
call  romantic,  which  I  very  much  suspected  before  :  they 
make  such  a  spluttering  about  it,  and  toss  their  splendid 
epithets  around  them,  till  they  give  as  dim  a  light  as  at 
four  o'clock  next  morning  the  lamps  do  after  an  illumina- 
tion. Mary  was  excessively  tired  when  she  got  about 
half-way  up  Skiddaw,  but  we  came  to  a  cold  rill  (than 
which  nothing  can  be  imagined  more  cold,  running  over 
cold  stones),  and  with  the  reinforcement  of  a  draught  of 
cold  water  she  surmounted  it  most  manfully.  Oh,  its 
fine  black  head,  and  the  bleak  air  atop  of  it,  with  a  pro- 
spect of  mountains  all  about  and  about,  making  you  giddy; 
and  then  Scotland  afar  off,  and  the  border  countries  so 
famous  in  song  and  ballad  !  It  was  a  day  that  will  stand 
out,  like  a  mountain,  I  am  sure,  in  my  life.  But  I  am 
returned  (I  have  now  been  come  home  near  three  weeks ; 
I  was  a  month  out),  and  you  cannot  conceive  the  degrada- 
tion I  felt  at  first,  from  being  accustomed  to  wander  free 
as  air  among  mountains,  and  bathe  in  rivers  without 
being  controlled  by  any  one,  to  come  home  and  work.  I 
felt  very  little.  I  had  been  dreaming  I  was  a  very  great 
man.  But  that  is  going  off,  and  I  find  I  shall  conform 
in  time  to  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  has  pleased  God 
to  call  me.  Besides,  after  all,  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand 
are  better  places  to  live  in  for  good  and  all  than  amidst 
Skiddaw.  Still,  I  turn  back  to  those  great  places  where 
I  wandered  about,  participating  in  their  greatness.  After 
all,  I  could  not  live  in  Skiddaw.  I  could  spend  a  year, 
two,  three  years  among  them,  but  I  must  have  a  prospect 
of  seeing  Fleet  Street  at  the  end  of  that  time,  or  I  should 
mope  and  pine  away,  I  know.  Still,  Skiddaw  is  a  fine 


184  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

creature.  My  habits  are  changing,  I  think,  i.e.  from 
drunk  to  sober.  Whether  I  shall  be  happier  or  not 
remains  to  be  proved.  I  shall  certainly  be  more  happy 
in  a  morning ;  but  whether  I  shall  not  sacrifice  the  fat, 
and  the  marrow,  and  the  kidneys,  i.e.  the  night,  glorious 
care-drowning  night,  that  heals  all  our  wrongs,  pours  wine 
into  our  mortifications,  changes  the  scene  from  indifferent 
and  flat  to  bright  and  brilliant !  0  Manning,  if  I  should 
have  formed  a  diabolical  resolution,  by  the  time  you  come 
to  England,  of  not  admitting  any  spirituous  liquors  into 
my  house,  will  you  be  my  guest  on  such  shameworthy 
terms  ?  Is  life,  with  such  limitations,  worth  trying  1 
The  truth  is,  that  my  liquors  bring  a  nest  of  friendly 
harpies  about  my  house,  who  consume  me.  This  is  a 
pitiful  tale  to  be  read  at  St.  Gothard,  but  it  is  just  now 
nearest  my  heart.  Fen  wick  is  a  ruined  man.  He  is 
hiding  himself  from  his  creditors,  and  has  sent  his  wife 
and  children  into  the  country.  Fell,  my  other  drunken 
companion  (that  has  been  :  nam  hie  ccestus  artemque 
repono),  is  turned  editor  of  a  Naval  Chronicle.  GodAvin 
continues  a  steady  friend,  though  the  same  facility  does 
not  remain  of  visiting  him  often.  That  .  .  .  has 
detached  Marshall  from  his  house;  Marshall,  the  man 
who  went  to  sleep  when  the  "Ancient  Mariner"  was 
reading;  the  old,  steady,  unalterable  friend  of  the  Pro- 
fessor. Holcroft  is  not  yet  come  to  town.  I  expect  to 
see  him,  and  will  deliver  your  message.  Things  come 
crowding  in  to  say,  and  no  room  for  'em.  Some  things 
are  too  little  to  be  told,  i.e.  to  have  a  preference ;  some 
are  too  big  and  circumstantial.  Thanks  for  yours,  which 
was  most  delicious.  Would  I  had  been  with  you,  be- 
nighted, etc.!  I  fear  my  head  is  turned  with  wandering. 
I  shall  never  be  the  same  acquiescent  being.  Farewell. 
Write  again  quickly,  for  I  shall  not  like  to  hazard  a  letter, 
not  knowing  where  the  fates  have  carried  you.  Farewell, 
my  dear  fellow.  C.  LAMB. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  185 

To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTEB  XCIi.]  October  9,  1802. 

CABOLUS  AGNUS  COLEEIDGIO  STJO  S. 

Carissime — Scribis,  ut  nummos  scilicet  epistolarios 
solvam  et  postremo  in  Tartara  abeam :  immo  tu  potius 
Tartaricum  (ut  aiunt)  deprehendisti,  qui  me  veraacul£ 
me&  lingua"  pro  scribS,  conductitio  per  tot  annos  satis 
eleganter  usuru  ad  Latink  impure  et  eanino  fere  ore 
latrandum  per  tuasmet  epistolas  beuk  compositas  et  con- 
ciunatas  percellere  studueris.  Conabor  tanien  :  Attamen 
vereor,  ut  JMes  istas  nostri  Cl)risti,  inter  quas  tanta 
diligentid,  magistri  improba  bonis  literulis,  quasi  per 
clysterem  quendam  injectis,  infra  suprkque  olim  penitus 
imbutus  fui,  Barnesii  et  Marklandii  doctissimorum  virorum 
nominibus  adhuc  gaudentes,  barbarismis  meis  peregrinis 
et  aliunde  quaesitis  valde  dehonestavero.  Sed  pergere 
quocunque  placet.  Adeste  igitur,  quotquot  estis,  conju- 
gationum  declinationumve  turmse,  terribilia  spectra,  et  tu 
imprimis  ades,  Umbra  et  Imago  maxima  obsoletse  (Diis 
gratia?)  Virg®,  quS,  novissime  in  mentem  receptH,  horres- 
cunt  subito  natales,  et  parum  deest  quo  minus  braccas 
meas  ultro  usque  ad  crura  demittam,  et  ipse  puer  pueriliter 
ejulem. 

Ista  tua  Carmina  Chamouniana  satis  grandia  esse 
inihi  constat ;  sed  hoc  milii  nonnihil  displicet,  qubd  in  iis 
illse  montium  Grisosonum  inter  se  responsiones  totidem 
reboant  anglice,  God,  God,  baud  aliter  atque  temet  audivi 
tuas  montes  Cumbrianas  resonare  docentes,  Tod,  Tod, 
nempe  Doctorern  infelicem :  vocem  certe  baud  Deum 
Sonantem.  Pro  cseteris  plaudo. 

Itidem  comparationes  istas  tuas  satis  callidas  et  lepidas 
certfe  novi :  sed  quid  hoc  ad  verum  1  cum  illi  Consulari 
viro  et  mentem  irritabilem  istum  Julianum :  et  etiam 
ctstutias  frigidulas  quasdam  Augusto  propriores,  uequa- 


186  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

quam  congruenter  uno  afflatu  comparationis  causa  insedisse 
affirmaveris  :  necnon  nescio  quid  similitudinis  etiam  cum 
Tiberio  tertio  in  loco  solicite  produxeris.  Quid  tibi 
equidem  cum  uno  vel  altero  Csesare,  cum  uuiversi  Duo- 
decim  ad  comparationes  tuas  se  ultro  tulerint  ?  Praeterea, 
vetustati  adnutans,  comparationes  iniquas  odi. 

Istas  Wordsworthianas  nuptias  (vel  potius  cujusdam 
Edmundii  tui)  te  retulisse  inirificum  gaudeo.  Valeas, 
Maria,  fortunata  nimium,  et  antiquse  illse  Marise  Virgin! 
(comparatione  plusquam  Caesareana)  forsitan  comparanda, 
quoniam  "beata  inter  mulieres:"  et  etiam  fortasse 
Wordsworthium  ipsum  tuum  maritum  Angelo  Salutatori 
sequare  fas  erit,  quoniam  e  Coelo  (ut  ille)  descendunt  et 
Musse  et  ipsi  Musicolse :  at  Wordsworthium  Musarum 
observantissimum  semper  novi.  Necnon  te  quoque  affini- 
tate  hac  nov^,,  Dorothea,  gratulor :  et  tu  certe  alterum 
donum  Dei. 

Istum  Ludum,  quern  tu,  Coleridgi,  Americanum  garris, 
a  Ludo  (ut  Ludi  sunt)  maxime  abhorrentem  prsetereo : 
nempe  quid  ad  Ludum  attinet,  totius  illse  gentis  Colum- 
bianse,  a  nostra  gente,  eadem  stirpe  orta,  ludi  singuli 
causa  voluntatem  perperam  alienare?  Queeso  ego  materiam 
ludi :  tu  Bella  ingeris. 

Denique  valeas,  et  quid  de  Latinitate  mea  putes, 
dicas :  facias  ut  opossum  ilium  nostrum  volantem  vel 
(ut  tu  malis)  quendam  Piscem  errabundum,  a  me  salvum 
et  pulcherrimum  esse  jubeas.  Valeant  uxor  tua  cum 
Hartleiio  nostro.  Soror  mea  salva  est  et  ego  :  vos  et 
ipsa  salvere  jubet.  Ulterius  progrediri  non  liquet :  homo 
sum  seratus. 

P.S. — Pene  mihi  exciderat,  apud  me  esse  Librorum  a 
Johanno  Miltono  Latine  scriptorum  volumina  duo,  quae 
(Deo  voleute)  cum  caeteris  tuis  libris  ocyus  citius  per 
Maria  ad  te  missura  curabo ;  sed  me  in  hoc  tali  geuere 
rerum  nullo  modo  festinantem  novisti :  habes  confitentem 
reum.  Hoc  solum  dici  restat,  prsedicta  volumina  pulchra 
esse  et  omnia  opera  Latina  J.  M.  in  se  contiuere.  Circa 


TO  COLERIDGE.  187 

defensionem  istam  Pro  Pop0.  Ang°.  acerrimam  in  praesena 
ipse  prseclaro  gauclio  moror. 

Juasa  tua  Stuartina  faciam  ut  diligenter  colam. 
Iterum  iterumque  valeas : 

Et  facias  memor  sis  nostri. 


LETTER  XCIIL]  October  11,  1802. 

Dear  Coleridge — Your  offer  about  the  German  poems 
is  exceedingly  kind  :  but  I  do  not  think  it  a  wise  specula- 
tion, because  the  time  it  would  take  you  to  put  them 
into  prose  would  be  nearly  as  great  as  if  you  versified 
them.  Indeed  I  am  sure  you  could  do  the  one  nearly  as 
soon  as  the  other ;  so  that  instead  of  a  division  of  labour, 
it  would  be  only  a  multiplication.  But  I  will  think  of 
your  offer  in  another  light.  I  daresay  I  could  find  many 
things,  of  a  light  nature,  to  suit  that  paper,  which  you 
would  not  object  to  pass  upon  Stuart  as  your  own,  and  I 
should  come  in  for  some  light  profits,  and  Stuart  think 
the  more  highly  of  your  assiduity.  "Bishop  Hall's 
Characters"  I  know  nothing  about,  having  never  seen 
them.  I  will  reconsider  your  offer,  which  is  very 
plausible ;  but  as  to  the  drudgery  of  going  every  day  to 
an  editor  with  my  scraps,  like  a  pedler,  for  him  to  pick 
out  and  tumble  about  my  ribbons  and  posies,  and  to  wait 
in  his  lobby,  etc.,  no  money  could  make  up  for  the 
degradation.  You  are  in  too  high  request  with  him  to 
have  anything  unpleasant  of  that  sort  to  submit  to. 

It  was  quite  a  slip  of  my  pen,  in  my  Latin  letter,  when 
I  told  you  I  had  Milton's  Latin  Works.  I  ought  to  have 
said  his  Prose  Works,  in  two  volumes,  Birck's  edition, 
containing  all,  both  Latin  and  English,  a  fuller  and  better 
edition  than  Lloyd's  of  Toland.  It  is  completely  at  your 
service,  and  you  must  accept  it  from  me ;  at  the  same 
time  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  Latin 
Milton,  which  you  think  you  have  at  Hewitt's ;  it  will 
leave  me  nothing  to  wish  for  but  the  History  of  England, 
which  I  shall  soon  pick  up  for  a  trifle.  But  you  must 


188  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

write  me  word  whether  the  Miltons  are  worth  paying 
carriage  for.  You  have  a  Milton ;  but  it  is  pleasanter 
to  eat  one's  own  pease  out  of  one's  own  garden,  than  to 
buy  them  by  the  peck  at  Coveut  Garden ;  and  a  book 
reads  the  better,  which  is  our  own,  and  has  been  so  long 
known  to  us,  that  we  know  the  topography  of  its  blots 
and  dog's-ears,  and  can  trace  the  dirt  in  it  to  having  read 
it  at  tea  with  buttered  muffins,  or  over  a  pipe,  which  I 
think  is  the  maximum.  But,  Coleridge,  you  must  accept 
these  little  things,  and  not  think  of  returning  money  for 
them,  for  I  do  not  set  up  for  a  factor  or  general  agent. 
As  for  the  fantastic  debt  of  £15,  I'll  think  you  were 
dreaming,  and  not  trouble  myself  seriously  to  attend  to 
you.  My  bad  Latin  you  properly  correct ;  but  natales 
for  nates  was  an  inadvertency  :  I  knew  better.  Progre- 
diri,  or  progredi,  I  thought  indifferent,  my  authority 
being  Ainsworth.  However,  as  I  have  got  a  fit  of  Latin, 
you  will  now  and  then  indulge  me  with  an  epistola.  I 
pay  the  postage  of  this,  and  propose  doing  it  by  turns. 
In  that  case  I  can  now  and  then  write  to  you  without 
remorse ;  not  that  you  would  mind  the  money,  but  you 
have  not  always  ready  cash  to  answer  small  demands,  the 
epistolarii  nummi. 

Your  "  Epigram  on  the  Sun  and  Moon  in  Germany  " 
is  admirable.  Take  'em  all  together,  they  are  as  good  as 
Harrington's.  I  will  muster  up  all  the  conceits  I  can, 
and  you  shall  have  a  packet  some  day.  You  and  I 
together  can  answer  all  demands  surely :  you,  mounted 
on  a  terrible  charger  (like  Homer,  in  the  Battle  of  the 
Books),  at  the  head  of  the  cavalry :  I  will  lead  the  light 
horse.  I  have  just  heard  from  Stoddart.  Allen  and  he 
intend  taking  Keswick  in  their  way  home.  Allen  wished 
particularly  to  have  it  a  secret  that  he  is  in  Scotland, 
and  wrote  to  me  accordingly  very  urgently.  As  luck 
was,  I  had  told  not  above  three  or  four ;  but  Mary  had 
told  Mrs.  Green,  of  Christ's  Hospital !  For  the  present, 
farewell :  never  forgetting  love  to  Pipos  and  his  friends. 

C.  LAMB. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  189 

LETTER  XCIV.]  October  23,  1802. 

I  read  daily  your  political  essays.  I  was  particularly 
pleased  with  "  Once  a  Jacobin  :"  though  the  argument  is 
obvious  enough,  the  style  was  less  swelling  than  your 
things  sometimes  are,  and  it  was  plausible  ad  populum. 
A  vessel  has  just  arrived  from  Jamaica  with  the  news  of 
poor  Sam  Le  Grice's  death.  He  died  at  Jamaica  of  the 
yellow  fever.  His  course  was  rapid,  and  he  had  been 
very  foolish ;  but  I  believe  there  was  more  of  kindness 
and  warmth  in  him  than  in  almost  any  other  of  our 
schoolfellows.  The  annual  meeting  of  the  Blues  is  to- 
morrow, at  the  London  Tavern,  where  poor  Sammy  dined 
with  them  two  years  ago,  and  attracted  the  notice  of  all 
by  the  singular  foppishness  of  his  dress.  When  men  go 
off  the  stage  so  early,  it  scarce  seems  a  noticeable  thing 
in  their  epitaphs,  whether  they  had  been  wise  or  silly  in 
their  lifetime. 

I  am  glad  the  snuff  and  Pi-pos's  books  please.  "  Goody 
Two  Shoes"  js  almost  out  of  print.  Mrs.  Barbauld's 
stuff  has  banished  all  the  old  classics  of  the  nursery ; 
and  the  shopman  at  Newberry's  hardly  deigned  to  reach 
them  off  an  old  exploded  corner  of  a  shelf,  when  Mary 
asked  for  them.  Mrs.  Barbauld's  and  Mrs.  Trimmer's 
nonsense  lay  in  piles  about.  Knowledge  insignificant  and 
vapid  as  Mrs.  Barbauld's  books  convey,  it  seems,  must 
come  to  a  child  in  the  shape  of  knowledge;  and  his 
empty  noddle  must  be  turned  with  conceit  of  his  own 
powers  when  he  has  learnt  that  a  horse  is  an  animal,  and 
Billy  is  better  than  a  horse,  and  such  like ;  instead  of 
that  beautiful  interest  in  wild  tales,  which  made  the  child 
a  man,  while  all  the  time  he  suspected  himself  to  be  no 
bigger  than  a  child.  Science  has  succeeded  to  poetry  no 
less  in  the  little  walks  of  children  than  with  men.  Is 
there  no  possibility  of  averting  this  sore  evil?  Think 
what  you  would  have  been  now,  if,  instead  of  being  fed 
with  tales  and  old  wives'  fables  in  childhood,  you  had 
been  crammed  with  geography  and  natural  history  1 


190  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Hang  them  ! — I  mean  the  cursed  Barbauld  crew,  those 
blights  and  blasts  of  all  that  is  human  in  man  and  child. 

As  to  the  translations,  let  me  do  two  or  three  hundred 
lines,  and  then  do  you  try  the  nostrums  upon  Stuart  in 
any  way  you  please.  If  they  go  down  I  will  bray  mora 
In  fact,  if  I  got  or  could  but  get  £50  a  year  only,  in 
addition  to  what  I  have,  I  should  live  in  affluence. 

Have  you  anticipated  it,  or  could  you  not  give  a 
parallel  of  Buonaparte  with  Cromwell,  particularly  as  to 
the  contrast  in  their  deeds  affecting  foreign  States? 
Cromwell's  interference  for  the  Albigenses,  Buonaparte's 
against  the  Swiss.  Then  religion  would  come  in ;  and 
Milton  and  you  could  rant  about  our  countrymen  of  that 
period.  This  is  a  hasty  suggestion,  the  more  hasty 
because  I  want  my  supper.  I  have  just  finished  Chap- 
man's Homer.  Did  you  ever  read  it?  it  has  the  con- 
tinuous power  of  interesting  you  all  along,  like  a  rapid 
original,  more  than  any ;  and  in  the  uncommon  excellence 
of  the  more  finished  parts  goes  beyond  Fairfax  or  any  of 
'em.  The  metre  is  fourteen  syllables,  and ,  capable  of  all 
sweetness  and  grandeur.  Cowper's  blank  verse  detains 
you  every  step  with  some  heavy  Miltonism ;  Chapman 
gallops  off  with  you  his  own  free  pace.  Take  a  simile  for 
example.  The  council  breaks  up — 

"  Being  abroad,  the  earth  was  overlaid 

With  flockers  to  them,  that  came  forth  ;  as  when  of  frequent  bees 
Swarms  rise  out  of  a  hollow  rock,  repairing  the  degrees 
Of  their  egression  endlessly,  with  ever  rising  new 
From  forth  their  sweet  nest ;  as  their  store,  still  as  it  faded,  grew, 
And  never  would  cease  sending  forth  clusters  to  the  spring, 
They  still  crowd  out  so  ;  this  flock  here,  that  there,  belabouring 
The  loaded  flowers.     So,"  etc.  etc. 

What  endless  egression  of  phrases  the  dog  commands  ! 

Take  another,  Agamemnon  wounded,  bearing  his 
wound  heroically  for  the  sake  of  the  army  (look  below), 
to  a  woman  in  labour. 

"  He,  with  his  lance,  sword,  mighty  stones,  pour'd  his  heroic  wreak 
On  other  squadrons  of  the  foe,  whiles  yet  warm  bloom  did  break 


TO  COLERIDGE.  191 

Thro*  his  cleft  veins  ;  but  when  the  wound  was  quite  exhaust 

and  crude, 

The  eager  anguish  did  approve  his  princely  fortitude. 
As  when  most  sharp  and  bitter  pangs  distract  a  labouring  dame, 
Which  the  divine  Ilithiae.  that  rule  the  painful  frame 
Of  human  childbirth,  pour  on  her  ;  the  Ilithiae  that  are 
The  daughters  of  Saturnia  ;  with  whose  extreme  repair 
The  woman  strives  to  take  the  worst  it  gives  ; 
With  thought,  it  must  be,  'tis  love's  fruit,  the  end  for  ivhich  slu 

lives  ; 

The  mean  to  make  herself  new  born,  what  comforts  will  redound  : 
So,"  etc. 

I  will  tell  you  more  about  Chapman  and  his  pecu- 
liarities in  my  next.     I  am  much  interested  in  him. 
Yours  ever  affectionately,  and  Pi-Pos's.  0.  L. 


LETTER  XCV.]  November  4,  1802. 

Observe,  there  comes  to  you,  by  the  Kendal  waggon 
to-morrow,  the  illustrious  5th  of  November,  a  box,  con- 
taining the  Mil  tons,  the  strange  American  Bible,  with 
White's  brief  note,  to  which  you  will  attend;  Baxter's 
Holy  Commonwealth,  for  which  you  stand  indebted  to 
me  3s.  6d. ;  an  odd  volume  of  Montaigne,  being  of  no 
use  to  me,  I  having  the  whole ;  certain  books  belonging 
to  Wordsworth,  as  do  also  the  strange  thick-hoofed  shoes, 
which  are  very  much  admired  in  London.  All  these 
sundries  I  commend  to  your  most  strenuous  looking  after. 
If  you  find  the  Miltons  in  certain  parts  dirtied  and  soiled 
with  a  crumb  of  right  Gloucester,  blacked  in  the  candle 
(my  usual  supper),  or  peradventure  a  stray  ash  of  tobacco 
wafted  into  the  crevices,  look  to  that  passage  more 
especially :  depend  upon  it,  it  contains  good  matter.  I 
have  got  your  little  Milton,  which,  as  it  contains  "  Sal- 
masius,"  and  I  make  a  rule  of  never  hearing  but  one  side 
of  the  question  (why  should  I  distract  myself1?),  I  shall 
return  to  you  when  I  pick  up  the  Latina  opera.  The 
first  Defence  is  the  greatest  work  among  them,  because 
it  is  uniformly  great,  and  such  as  is  befitting  the  very 
mouth  of  a  great  nation,  speaking  for  itself.  But  the 


192  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

second  Defence,  which  is  but  a  succession  of  splendid 
episodes,  slightly  tied  together,  has  one  passage,  which, 
if  you  have  not  read,  I  conjure  you  to  lose  no  time,  but 
read  ii; :  it  is  his  consolations  in  his  blindness,  which  had 
been  made  a  reproach  to  him.  It  begins  whimsically, 
with  poetical  flourishes  about  Tiresias  and  other  blind 
worthies  (which  still  are  mainly  interesting  as  displaying 
his  singular  mind,  and  in  what  degree  poetry  entered 
into  his  daily  soul,  not  by  fits  and  impulses,  but  engrained 
and  innate),  but  the  concluding  page,  i.e.  of  this  passage 
(not  of  the  Defensio),  which  you  will  easily  find,  divested 
of  all  brags  and  flourishes,  gives  so  rational,  so  true  an 
enumeration  of  his  comforts,  so  human,  that  it  cannot  be 
read  without  the  deepest  interest.  Take  one  touch  of 
the  religious  part : — "  Et  sane  haud  ultima  Dei  cura  cseci 
— we  blind  folks,  I  understand  it  (not  nos  for  ego  /) — 
sumus ;  qui  nos,  quomiuus  quicquam  aliud  praeter  ipsum 
cernere  valeinus,  eo  clementius  atque  benignius  respicere 
dignatur.  Vae  qui  illudit  nos,  vse  qui  laedit,  execratione 
publica  devovendo ;  nos  ab  injuriis  hominum  non  modo 
incolumes,  sed  pene  sacros,  divina  lex  reddidit,  divinns 
favor :  nee  tarn  oculorum  hebetudine  quam  coelestium 
alarum  umbrd  has  nobis  fecisse  tenebras  videtur,  factas 
illustrare  rursus  interiore  ac  longe  praestabiliore  lumine 
haud  raro  solet.  Hue  refero,  quod  et  amici  ofSciosius 
nunc  etiam  quam  solebant,  colunt,  observant,  adsunt, 
quod  et  nonnulli  sunt,  quibuscum  Pyladeas  atque  Theseas 
alternare  voces  verorum  amicorum  liceat. 
"  Vade  gubernaculum  mei  pedis. 

Da  manum  ministro  amico 

Da  collo  manum  tuam,  ductor  autem  vise  ero  tibi  ego." 

All  this,  and  much  more,  is  highly  pleasing  to  know. 
But  you  may  easily  find  it ;  and  I  don't  know  why  I  put 
down  so  many  words  about  it  but  for  the  pleasure  of 
writing  to  you,  and  the  want  of  another  topic. 

Yours  ever,  C.  LAMB. 

To-morrow  I  expect  with  anxiety  S.  T.  C.'s  letter  to 
Mr.  Fox. 


TO  MANNING.  193 

To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  XCYI.]  November  1802. 

My  dear  Manning — I  must  positively  write,  or  I 
shall  miss  you  at  Toulouse.  I  sit  here  like  a  decayed 
minute  hand;  (I  lie:  that  does  not  sit;)  and  being 
myself  the  exponent  of  no  time,  take  no  heed  how  the 
clocks  about  me  are  going.  You  possibly  by  this  time 
may  have  explored  all  Italy,  and  toppled,  unawares,  into 
Etna,  while  you  went  too  near  those  rotten-jawed,  gap- 
toothed,  old  worn-out  chaps  of  hell, — while  I  am  medi- 
tating a  quiescent  letter  to  the  honest  post -master  of 
Toulouse.  But  in  case  you  should  not  have  been  felo  de 
te,  this  is  to  tell  you,  that  your  letter  was  quite  to  my 
palate :  in  particular  your  just  remarks  upon  Industry, 
cursed  Industry  (though  indeed  you  left  me  to  explore 
the  reason),  were  highly  relishing.  I  have  often  wished 
I  had  lived  in  the  golden  age,  when  shepherds  lay  stretched 
apon  flowers,  and  roused  themselves  at  their  leisure, — the 
genius  there  is  in  a  man's  natural  idle  face,  that  has  not 
learned  his  multiplication  table !  before  doubt,  and  pro- 
positions, and  corollaries,  got  into  the  world  ! 

Now,  as  Joseph  Cottle,  a  Bard  of  Nature,  sings,  going 
up  Malvern  Hills, 

"  How  steep  !  how  painful  the  ascent  I 
It  needs  the  evidence  of  close  deduction 
To  know  that  ever  I  shall  gain  the  top." 

You  must  know  that  Joe  is  lame,  so  that  he  had  some 
reason  for  so  singing.  These  two  lines,  I  assure  you,  are 
taken  totidem  literis  from  a  very  popular  poem.  Joe  is 
also  an  Epic  Poet  as  well  as  a  Descriptive,  and  has  written 
a  tragedy,  though  both  his  drama  and  epopoiea  are  strictly 
descriptive,  and  chiefly  of  the  Beauties  of  Nature,  for 
Joe  thinks  man  with  all  his  passions  and  frailties  not  a 
proper  subject  of  the  Drama.  Joe's  tragedy  hath  the 
following  surpassing  speech  in  it.  Some  king  is  told  that 
his  enemy  has  engaged  twelve  archers  to  come  over  in  a 
o 


194  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB 

boat  from  an  enemy's  country  and  way-lay  him ;  he 
thereupon  pathetically  exclaims — 

"  Twelve,  dost  thou  say  ?     Curse  on  those  dozen  villains  ! " 

Cottle  read  two  or  three  acts  out  to  us,  very  gravely  on 
both  sides  till  he  came  to  this  heroic  touch, — and  then 
he  asked  what  we  laughed  at  1  I  had  no  more  muscles 
that  day.  A  poet  that  chooses  to  read  out  his  own  verses 
has  but  a  limited  power  over  you.  There  is  a  bound 
where  his  authority  ceases. 


LETTER  XCVII.]  February  19,  1803. 

My  dear  Manning — The  general  scope  of  your  letter 
afforded  no  indications  of  insanity,  but  some  particular 
points  raised  a  scruple.  For  God's  sake  don't  think  any 
more  of  "  Independent  Tartary."  "What  are  you  to  do 
among  such  Ethiopians  ?  Is  there  no  lineal  descendant 
of  Prester  John?  Is  the  chair  empty1?  Is  the  sword 
unswayed  1  Depend  upon  it  they'll  never  make  you  their 
king,  as  long  as  any  branch  of  that  great  stock  is  remain- 
ing. I  tremble  for  your  Christianity.  They  will  certainly 
circumcise  you.  Read  Sir  John  Mandeville's  travels  to 
cure  you,  or  come  over  to  England.  There  is  a  Tartar- 
man  now  exhibiting  at  Exeter  Change.  Come  and  talk 
with  him,  and  hear  what  he  says  first.  Indeed  he  is  no 
very  favourable  specimen  of  his  countrymen !  But  perhaps 
the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  try  to  get  the  idea  out  of 
your  head.  For  this  purpose  repeat  to  yourself  every 
night,  after  you  have  said  your  prayers,  the  words  In- 
dependent Tartary,  Independent  Tartary,  two  or  three 
times,  and  associate  with  them  the  idea  of  oblivion  ('tis 
Hartley's  method  with  obstinate  memories),  or  say,  Inde- 
pendent, Independent,  have  I  not  already  got  an  inde- 
pendence ?  That  was  a  clever  way  of  the  old  puritans, 
pun-divinity.  My  dear  friend,  think  what  a  sad  pity  it 
would  be  to  bury  such  parts  in  heathen  countries,  among 
nasty,  unconversable,  horse  -  belching,  Tartar  -  people  1 


TO  MANNING.  195 

Some  say,  they  are  Cannibals ;  and  then,  conceive  a 
Tartar-fellow  eating  my  friend,  and  adding  the  cool 
malignity  of  mustard  and  vinegar  !  I  am  afraid  'tis  the 
reading  of  Chaucer  has  misled  you ;  his  foolish  stories 
about  Cambuscan,  and  the  ring,  and  the  horse  of  brass. 
Believe  me,  there  are  no  such  things,  'tis  all  the  poet's 
invention;  but  if  there  were  such  darling  things  as  old 
Chaucer  sings,  I  would  up  behind  you  on  the  horse  of 
brass,  and  frisk  off  for  Prester  John's  country.  But  these 
are  all  tales ;  a  horse  of  brass  never  flew,  and  a  king's 
daughter  never  talked  with  birds  !  The  Tartars,  really, 
are  a  cold,  insipid,  smouchy  set.  You'll  be  sadly  moped 
(if  you  are  not  eaten)  among  them.  Pray  try  and  cure 
yourself.  Take  hellebore  (the  counsel  is  Horace's,  'twas 
none  of  my  thought  originally).  Shave  yourself  oftener. 
Eat  no  saffron,  for  saffron-eaters  contract  a  terrible  Tartar- 
like  yellow.  Pray,  to  avoid  the  fiend.  Eat  nothing  that 
gives  the  heart-burn.  Shave  the  upper  lip.  Go  about 
like  an  European.  Read  no  books  of  voyages  (they  are 
nothing  but  lies),  only  now  and  then  a  romance,  to  keep 
the  fancy  under.  Above  all,  don't  go  to  any  sights  of 
u'ild  beasts.  That  has  been  your  ruin.  Accustom  your- 
self to  write  familiar  letters,  on  common  subjects,  to  your 
friends  in  England,  such  as  are  of  a  moderate  understand- 
ing. And  think  about  common  things  more.  There's 
your  friend  Holcroft,  now,  has  written  a  Play.  You  used 
to  be  fond  of  the  drama.  Nobody  went  to  see  it.  Not- 
withstanding this,  with  an  audacity  perfectly  original, 
he  faces  the  town  down  in  a  preface  that  they  did  like  it 
veiy  much.  I  have  heard  a  waspish  punster  say,  "  Sir, 
why  did  you  not  laugh  at  my  jest?"  But  for  a  man 
boldly  to  face  one  ou£  with  "  Sir,  I  maintain  it,  you  did 
laugh  at  my  jest,"  is  a  little  too  much.  I  have  seen  H. 
but  once.  He  spoke  of  you  to  me  in  honourable  terms. 

H.  seems  to  me  to  be  drearily  dull.    G is  dull, 

then  he  has  a  dash  of  affectation,  which  smacks  of  the 
coxcomb,  and  your  coxcombs  are  always  agreeable.  I 
supped  last  night  wich  Rickman,  and  met  a  merry  natural 


196  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

captain,  who  pleases  himself  vastly  with  once  having 
made  a  pun  at  Otaheite  in  the  0.  language.  'Tis  the 
same  man  who  said  Shakspeare  he  liked,  because  he  was 
so  muck  of  the  gentleman.  Rickman  is  a  man  "  absolute 
in  all  numbers."  I  think  I  may  one  day  bring  you 
acquainted,  if  you  do  not  go  to  Tartary  first ;  for  you'll 
never  come  back.  Have  a  care,  my  dear  friend,  of 
Anthropophagi !  their  stomachs  are  always  craving.  'Tis 
terrible  to  be  weighed  out  at  fivepence  a-pound ;  to  sit  at 
table  (the  reverse  of  fishes  in  Holland)  not  as  a  guest, 
but  as  a  meat. 

God  bless  you  :  do  come  to  England.  Air  and  exercise 
may  do  great  things.  Talk  with  some  minister.  Why 
not  your  father  ? 

God  dispose  all  for  the  best.  I  have  discharged  my 
duty. 

Your  sincere  friend,  C.  LAMB. 

LETTER  XCVIIL]  February  1803. 

Not  a  sentence,  not  a  syllable  of  Trismegistus  shall 
be  lost  through  my  neglect.  I  am  his  word-banker,  his 
storekeeper  of  puns  and  syllogisms.  You  cannot  conceive 
(and  if  Trismegistus  cannot,  no  man  can)  the  strange  joy 
which  I  felt  at  the  receipt  of  a  letter  from  Paris.  It 
seemed  to  give  me  a  learned  importance,  which  placed  me 
above  all  who  had  not  Parisian  correspondents.  Believe 
that  I  shall  carefully  husband  every  scrap,  which  will  save 
you  the  trouble  of  memory,  when  you  come  back.  You 
cannot  write  things  so  trifling,  let  them  only  be  about 
Paris,  which  I  shall  not  treasure.  In  particular,  I  must 
have  parallels  of  actors  ai  J  actresses.  I  must  be  told  if 
any  building  in  Paris  is  at  all  comparable  to  St.  Paul's, 
which,  contrary  to  the  usual  mode  of  that  part  of  our 
nature  called  admiration,  I  have  looked  up  to  with  un- 
fading wonder,  every  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  ever  since 
it  has  lain  in  my  way  to  business.  At  noon  I  casually 
glance  upon  it,  being  hungry ;  and  hunger  has  not  much 


TO  MANNING.  197 

taste  for  the  fine  arts.  Is  any  night-walk  comparable  to 
a  walk  from  St.  Paul's  to  Charing  Cross,  for  lighting  and 
paving,  crowds  going  and  coming  without  respite,  the 
rattle  of  coaches,  and  the  cheerfulness  of  shops  ?  Have 
you  seen  a  man  guillotined  yet  ?  Is  it  as  good  as  hanging  ? 
Are  the  women  all  painted,  and  the  men  all  monkeys  1 
or  are  there  not  a  few  that  look  like  rational  of  both  sexes? 
Are  you  and  the  first  consul  thick?  All  this  expense 
of  ink  I  may  fairly  put  you  to,  as  your  letters  will  not 
be  solely  for  my  proper  pleasure ;  but  are  to  serve  as 
memoranda  and  notices,  helps  for  short  memory,  a  kind 
of  Rumfordising  recollection,  for  yourself  on  your  return. 
Your  letter  was  just  what  a  letter  should  be,  crammed, 
and  very  funny.  Every  part  of  it  pleased  me  till  you 
came  to  Paris ;  then  your  philosophical  indolence,  or 
indifference,  stung  me.  You  cannot  stir  from  your  rooms 
till  you  know  the  language  !  What  the  devil ! — are  men 
nothing  but  word -trumpets  ?  Are  men  all  tongue  and 
ear?  Have  these  creatures,  that  you  and  I  profess  to 
know  something  about,  no  faces,  gestures,  gabble,  no  folly, 
no  absurdity,  no  induction  of  French  education  upon  the 
abstract  idea  of  men  and  women,  no  similitude  nor  dis- 
similitude to  English !  Why,  thou  cursed  Smellfungus  ! 
your  account  of  your  landing  and  reception,  and  Bullen, 
(I  forget  how  you  spell  it,  it  was  spelt  my  way  in  Harry 
the  Eighth's  time),  was  exactly  in  that  minute  style  which 
strong  impressions  INSPIRE  (writing  to  a  Frenchman,  I 
write  as  a  Frenchman  would).  It  appears  to  me  as  if  I 
should  die  with  joy  at  the  first  landing  in  a  foreign  country. 
It  is  the  nearest  pleasure  which  a  grown  man  can  substi- 
tute for  that  unknown  one,  which  he  can  never  know,  the 
pleasure  of  the  first  entrance  into  life  from  the  womb. 
I  dare  say,  in  a  short  time,  my  habits  would  come  back 
like  a  'stronger  man"  armed,  and  drive  out  that  new 
pleasure ;  and  I  should  soon  sicken  for  known  objects. 
Nothing  has  transpired  here  that  seems  to  me  of  sufficient 
importance  to  send  dry-shod  over  the  water :  but  I  sup- 
pose you  will  want  to  be  told  some  news.  The  best  and 


198  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  worst  to  me  is,  that  I  have  given  up  t\vo  guineas  a 
week  at  the  Post,  and  regained  my  health  and  spirits, 
which  were  upon  the  wane.  I  grew  sick,  and  Stuart 
unsatisfied.  Ludisti  satis,  tempus  abire  est ;  I  must  cut 
closer,  that's  all.  Mister  Fell,  or  as  you,  with  your  usual 
facetiousuess  and  drollery,  call  him,  Mr.  F  +  11,  has 
stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  his  play.  Some  friend 
has  told  him  that  it  has  not  the  least  merit  in  it.  Oh 
that  I  had  the  rectifying  of  the  Litany  !  I  would  put  in 
a  liber  a  nos  (Scriptores  videlicet}  ab  amicis  !  That's  all 
the  news.  Apropos :  is  it  pedantry,  writing  to  a  French- 
man, to  express  myself  sometimes  by  a  French  word,  when 
an  English  one  would  not  do  as  well  ?  Methinks  my 
thoughts  fall  naturally  into  it. 

In  all  this  time  I  have  done  but  one  thing,  which  I 
reckon  tolerable,  and  that  I  will  transcribe,  because  it 
may  give  you  pleasure,  being  a  picture  of  my  humours. 
You  will  find  it  in  my  last  page.  It  absurdly  is  a  first 
Number  of  a  series,  thus  strangled  in  embryo. 

More  news  !  The  Professor's  Rib  has  come  out  to  be 
a  disagreeable  woman,  so  much  so  as  to  drive  me  and 
some  more  old  cronies  from  his  house.  He  must  not 
wonder  if  people  are  shy  of  coming  to  see  him  because  of 
the  "snakes."  C.  L. 


LETTER  XCIX.]  March  1803. 

Dear  Maiming — I  send  you  some  verses  I  have  made 
on  the  death  of  a  young  Quaker  you  may  have  heard  me 
speak  of  as  being  in  love  with  for  some  years  while  I 
lived  at  Pentonville,  though  I  had  never  spoken  to  her  in 
my  life.  She  died  about  a  month  since.  If  you  have 
interest  with  the  Abbe"  de  Lisle,  you  may  get  'em  trans- 
lated ;  he  has  done  as  much  for  the  Georgica. 


TO  COLERIDGE.  199 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  C.  March  20,  1803. 

Mary  sends  love  from  home. 

Dear  Coleridge — I  do  confess  that  I  have  not  sent 
your  books  as  I  ought  to  have  done ;  but  you  know  how 
the  human  free  will  is  tethered,  and  that  we  perform 
promises  to  ourselves  no  better  than  to  our  friends.  A 
watch  is  come  for  you.  Do  you  want  it  soon,  or  shall  I 
wait  till  some  one  travels  your  way?  You,  like  me,  I 
suppose,  reckon  the  lapse  of  time  from  the  waste  thereof, 
as  boys  let  a  cock  run  to  waste ;  too  idle  to  stop  it,  and 
rather  amused  with  seeing  it  dribble.  Your  poems  have 
begun  printing;  Longman  sent  to  me  to  arrange  them, 
the  old  aud  the  new  together.  It  seems  you  have  left  it 
to  him ;  so  I  classed  them,  as  nearly  as  I  could,  accord- 
ing to  dates.  First,  after  the  Dedication  (which  must 
march  first),  and  which  I  have  transplanted  from  before 
the  Preface  (which  stood  like  a  dead  wall  of  prose 
between),  to  be  the  first  poem;  then  comes  "  The  Pixies," 
and  the  things  most  juvenile  ;  then  on  "  To  Chatterton," 
etc., — on,  lastly,  to  the  "Ode  on  the  Departing  Year," 
and  "Musings," — which  finish.  Longman  wanted  the 
Ode  first,  but  the  arrangement  I  have  made  is  precisely 
that  marked  out  in  the  Dedication,  following  the  order  of 
time.  I  told  Longman  I  was  sure  that  you  would  omit 
a  good  portion  of  the  first  edition.  I  instanced  several 
sonnets,  etc. ;  but  that  was  not  his  plan,  and,  as  you 
have  done  nothing  in  it,  all  I  could  do  was  to  arrange 
'em  on  the  supposition  that  all  were  to  be  retained.  A 
few  I  positively  rejected ;  such  as  that  of  "  The  Thimble," 
and  that  of  "  Flicker  and  Flicker's  Wife,"  and  that  not  in 
the  manner  of  Spenser,  which  you  yourself  had  stigma- 
tised— and  the  "Man  of  Ross," — I  doubt  whether  I 
should  this  last.  It  is  not  too  late  to  save  it.  The  first 
proof  is  only  just  come.  I  have  been  forced  to  call  that 
Cupid's  Elixir,  "  Kisses."  It  stands  in  your  first  volume, 


200  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

as  an  Effusion,  so  that,  instead  of  prefixing  "  The  Kiss  " 
to  that  of  "  One  Kiss,  dear  Maid,"  etc.,  I  have  ventured 
to  entitle  it  "To  Sara."  I  am  aware  of  the  nicety  of 
changing  even  so  mere  a  trifle  as  a  title  to  so  short  a 
piece,  and  subverting  old  associations ;  but  two  called 
"Kisses"  would  have  been  absolutely  ludicrous,  and 
"Effusion"  is  no  name,  and  these  poems  come  close 
together.  I  promise  you  not  to  alter  one  word  in  any 
poem  whatever,  but  to  take  your  last  text,  where  two 
are.  Can  you  send  any  wishes  about  the  book  1  Long- 
man, I  think,  should  have  settled  with  you ;  but  it  seems 
you  have  left  it  to  him.  Write  as  soon  as  you  possibly 
can ;  for,  without  making  myself  responsible,  I  feel  my- 
self, in  some  sort,  accessory  to  the  selection,  which  I  am 
to  proof-correct ;  but  I  decidedly  said  to  Biggs  that  I  was 
sure  you  would  omit  more.  Those  I  have  positively 
rubbed  off,  I  can  swear  to  individually  (except  the  "  Man 
of  Ross,"  which  is  too  familiar  in  Pope),  but  no  others — 
you  have  your  cue.  For  my  part,  I  would  rather  all  the 
Juvenilia  were  kept — memoriae  causA. 

Robert  Lloyd  has  written  me  a  masterly  letter,  con- 
taining a  character  of  his  father.  See  how  different  from 
Charles  he  views  the  old  man  !  (Literatim)  :  "  My  father 
smokes,  repeats  Homer  in  Greek,  and  Virgil,  and  is  learn- 
ing, when  from  business,  with  all  the  vigour  of  a  young 
man,  Italian.  He  is,  really,  a  wonderful  man.  He 
mixes  public  and  private  business,  the  intricacies  of  dis- 
ordering life,  with  his  religion  and  devotion.  No  one 
more  rationally  enjoys  the  romantic  scenes  of  Nature, 
and  the  chit-chat  and  little  vagaries  of  his  children ;  and, 
though  surrounded  with  an  ocean  of  affairs,  the  very 
neatness  of  his  most  obscure  cupboard  in  the  house 
passes  not  unnoticed.  I  never  knew  any  one  view  with 
such  clearness,  nor  so  well  satisfied  with  things  as  they 
are,  and  make  such  allowance  for  things  -which  must 
appear  perfect  Syriac  to  him."  By  the  last  he  means  the 
Lloydisms  of  the  younger  branches.  His  portrait  of 
Charles  (exact  as  far  as  he  has  had  opportunities  of 


TO  COLERIDGE.  201 

noting  him)  is  most  exquisite : — "  Charles  is  become 
steady  as  a  church,  and  as  straightforward  as  a  Roman 
road.  It  would  distract  him  to  mention  anything  that 
was  not  as  plain  as  sense ;  he  seems  to  have  run  the  whole 
scenery  of  life,  and  now  rests  as  the  formal  precision  of 
non-existence."  Here  is  genius,  I  think,  and  'tis  seldom 
a  young  man,  a  Lloyd,  looks  at  a  father  (so  differing) 
with  such  good-nature  while  he  is  alive.  Write — 
I  am  in  post-haste,  C.  LAMB. 

Love,  etc.,  to  Sara,  P.,  and  H. 


LETTER  CL]  April  13,  1803. 

My  dear  Coleridge — Things  have  gone  on  better  with 
me  since  you  left  me.  I  expect  to  have  my  old  house- 
keeper home  again  in  a  week  or  two.  She  has  mended 
most  rapidly.  My  health  too  has  been  better  since  you 
took  away  that  Montero  cap.  I  have  left  off  cayenned 
eggs  and  such  bolsters  to  discomfort.  There  was  death 
in  that  cap.  I  mischievously  wished  that  by  some 
inauspicious  jolt  the  whole  contents  might  be  shaken,  and 
the  coach  set  on  fire  ;  for  you  said  they  had  that  property. 
How  the  old  gentleman,  who  joined  you  at  Grantham, 
would  have  clapp'd  his  hands  to  his  knees,  and  not  know- 
ing but  it  was  an  immediate  visitation  of  God  that  burnt 
him,  how  pious  it  would  have  made  him  ! — him,  I  mean, 
that  bi ought  the  Influenza  with  him,  and  only  took  places 
for  one — an  old  sinner ;  he  must  have  known  what  he 
had  got  with  him  !  However,  I  wish  the  cap  no  harm 
for  the  sake  of  the  head  it  Jits,  and  could  be  content  to 
see  it  disfigure  my  healthy  sideboard  again. 

What  do  you  think  of  smoking  1  I  want  your  sober, 
average,  noon  opinion  of  it.  I  generally  am  eating  my 
dinner  about  the  time  I  should  determine  it. 

Morning  is  a  girl,  and  can't  smoke — she's  no  evidence 
one  way  or  the  other ;  and  Night  is  so  evidently  bought 
over,  that  he  can't  be  a  very  upright  judge.  May  be  the 


202  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

truth  is,  that  one  pipe  is  wholesome,  two  pipes  toothsome, 
three  pipes  noisome,  four  pipes  fulsome,  five  pipes  quarrel- 
some, and  that's  the  sum  on't.  But  that  is  deciding 
rather  upon  rhyme  than  reason.  .  .  .  After  all,  our 
instincts  may  be  best.  Wine,  I  am  sure — good  mellow, 
generous  Port — can  hurt  nobody,  unless  those  who  take  it 
to  excess,  which  they  may  easily  avoid  if  they  observe 
the  rules  of  temperance. 

Bless  you,  old  sophist,  who  next  to  human  nature 
taught  me  all  the  corruption  I  was  capable  of  knowing ! 
And  bless  your  Montero  cap,  and  your  trail  (which  shall 
come  after  you  whenever  you  appoint),  and  your  wife  and 
children — Pipos  especially. 

When  shall  we  two  smoke  again  ?  Last  night  I  had 
been  in  a  sad  quandary  of  spirits,  in  what  they  call  the 
evening ;  but  a  pipe,  and  some  generous  Port,  and  King 
Lear  (being  alone),  had  their  effects  as  solacers.  I  went 
to  bed  pot-valiant.  By  the  way,  may  not  the  Ogles  of 
Somersetshire  be  remotely  descended  from  King  Lear  1 

C.  L. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  CIT.]  April  23,  1803. 

My  dear  Manning — Although  something  of  the  latest, 
and  after  two  mouths'  waiting,  your  letter  was  highly 
gratifying.  Some  parts  want  a  little  explication  ;  for 
example,  "  the  god-like  face  of  the  first  consul."  What 
'jod  does  he  most  resemble,  Mars,  Bacchus,  or  Apollo? 
or  the  god  Serapis,  who,  flying  (as  Egyptian  chronicles 
deliver)  from  the  fury  of  the  dog  Anubis  (the  hieroglyph 
of  an  English  mastiff),  lighted  upon  Monomotapa  (or  the 
land  of  apes),  by  some  thought  to  be  Old  France,  and 
there  set  up  a  tyranny,  etc.  Our  London  prints  of  him 
represent  him  gloomy  and  sulky,  like  an  angry  Jupiter. 
I  hear  that  he  is  very  small,  even  less  than  me.  I  envy 
you  your  access  to  this  great  man,  much  more  than  youi 


TO  MANNING.  203 

stances  and  conversaziones,  which  I  have  a  shrewd  sus- 
picion must  be  something  dull.  What  you  assert  concern- 
ing the  actors  of  Paris,  that  they  exceed  our  comedians, 
bad  as  ours  are,  is  impossible.  In  one  sense  it  may  be 
true,  that  their  fine  gentlemen,  in  what  is  called  genteel 
comedy,  may  possibly  be  more  brisk  and  degage  than  Mr. 
Caulfield,  or  Mr.  Whitfield ;  but  have  any  of  them  the 
power  to  move  laughter  in  excess  ?  or  can  a  Frenchman 
laugh  ?  Can  they  batter  at  your  judicious  ribs  till  they 
shake,  nothing  loth  to  be  so  shaken  1  This  is  John  Bull's 
criterion,  and  it  shall  be  mine.  You  are  Frenchified. 
Both  your  tastes  and  morals  are  corrupt  and  perverted. 
By  and  by  you  will  come  to  assert  that  Buonaparte  is  as 
great  a  general  as  the  old  Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  deny 
that  one  Englishman  can  beat  three  Frenchmen.  Bead 
Henry  the  Fifth  to  restore  your  orthodoxy. 

All  things  continue  at  a  stay-still  in  London.  I  cannot 
repay  your  new  novelties  with  my  stale  reminiscences. 
Like  the  prodigal,  I  have  spent  my  patrimony,  and  feed 
upon  the  superannuated  chaff  and  dry  husks  of  repentance; 
yet  sometimes  I  remember  with  pleasure  the  hounds  and 
horses,  which  I  kept  in  the  days  of  my  prodigality.  I 
find  nothing  new,  nor  anything  that  has  so  much  of  the 
gloss  and  dazzle  of  novelty  as  may  rebound  in  narrative, 
and  cast  a  reflective  glimmer  across  the  channel.  Some- 
thing I  will  say  about  people  that  you  and  I  know. 
Fenwick  is  still  in  debt,  and  the  Professor  has  not  done 
making  love  to  his  new  spouse.  I  think  he  never  looks 
into  an  almanack,  or  he  would  have  found  by  the  calendar 
that  the  honeymoon  was  extinct  a  moon  ago.  Southey 
is  Secretary  to  the  Chancellor  of  the  Irish  Exchequer; 
£400  a  year.  Stoddart  is  turned  Doctor  of  Civil  Law, 
and  dwells  in  Doctors'  Commons.  I  fear  his  commons 
are  short,  as  they  say.  Did  I  send  you  an  epitaph  I 
scribbled  upon  a  poor  girl  who  died  at  nineteen  1 — a  good 
girl,  and  a  pretty  girl,  and  a  clever  girl,  but  strangely 
neglected  by  all  her  friends  and  kin. 


204  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

"  Under  this  cold  marble  stone 
Sleep  the  sad  remains  of  one 
Who,  when  alive,  by  few  or  none 
Was  loved,  as  loved  she  might  have  been, 
If  she  prosperous  days  had  seen, 
Or  had  thriving  been,  I  ween. 
Only  this  cold  funeral  stone 
Tells  she  was  beloved  by  one, 
Who  on  the  marble  graves  his  moan." 

Brief,  and  pretty,  and  tender,  is  it  not  1  I  send  you 
thia,  being  the  only  piece  of  poetry  I  have  done  since  the 
Muses  all  went  with  T.  M.  to  Paris.  I  have  neither 
stuff  in  my  brain,  nor  paper  in  my  drawer,  to  write  you 
a  longer  letter.  Liquor  and  company  and  wicked  tobacco, 
a'nights,  have  quite  dispericraniated  me,  as  one  may  say ; 
but  you,  who  spiritualise  upon  Champagne,  may  continue 
to  write  long  letters,  and  stuff  'em  with  amusement  to 
the  end-  Too  long  they  cannot  be,  any  more  than. a 
codicil  to  a  will,  which  leaves  me  sundry  parks  and 
manors  not  specified  in  the  deed.  But  don't  be  two 
months  before  you  write  again.  These  from  merry  old 
England,  on  the  day  of  her  valiant  patron  St.  George. 

C.  LAMB. 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 
LETTER  GUI.]  May  27,  1803. 

My  dear  Coleridge — The  date  of  my  last  was  one  day 
prior  to  the  receipt  of  your  letter,  full  of  foul  omens.  I 
explain  this  lest  you  should  have  thought  mine  too  light 
a  reply  to  such  sad  matter.  I  seriously  hope  by  this 
time  you  have  given  up  all  thoughts  of  journeying  to  the 
green  Islands  of  the  Bless'd — (voyages  in  time  of  war  are 
very  precarious) — or  at  least,  that  you  will  take  them  in 
your  way  to  the  Azores.  Pray  be  careful  of  this  letter 
till  it  has  done  its  duty,  for  it  is  to  inform  you  that  I 
have  booked  off  your  watch  (laid  in  cotton  like  an 
untimely  fruit),  and  with  it  Condillac,  and  all  other 
books  of  yours  which  were  left  here.  These  will  set  out 


TO  COLERIDGE.  205 

on  Monday  next,  the  29th  May,  by  Kendal  waggon,  from 
White  Horse,  Cripplegate.  You  will  make  seasonable 
inquiries,  for  a  watch  mayn't  come  your  way  again  in  a 
bmry.  I  have  been  repeatedly  after  Tobin,  and  now 
hear  that  he  is  in  the  country,  not  to  return  till  the 
middle  of  June.  I  will  take  care  and  see  him  with  the 
earliest.  But  cannot  you  write  pathetically  to  him, 
enforcing  a  speeding  mission  of  your  books  for  literary 
purposes  ?  He  is  too  good  a  retainer  to  Literature  to  let 
her  interests  suffer  through  his  default.  And  why,  in 
the  name  of  Beelzebub,  are  your  books  to  travel  from 
Barnard's  Inn  to  the  Temple,  and  thence  circuitously  to 
Cripplegate,  when  their  business  is  to  take  a  short  cut 
down  Holborn  Hill,  up  Snow  ditto,  on  to  Wood  Street, 
etc.  ?  The  former  mode  seems  a  sad  superstitious  sub- 
division of  labour.  Well!  the  "Man  of  Boss"  is  to 
stand ;  Longman  begs  for  it ;  the  printer  stands  with  a 
wet  sheet  in  one  hand,  and  a  useless  Pica  in  the  other,  in 
tears,  pleading  for  it ;  I  relent.  Besides,  it  was  a  Salu- 
tation poem,  and  has  the  mark  of  the  beast  "  Tobacco  " 
upon  it.  Thus  much  I  have  done ;  I  have  swept  off 
the  lines  about  widows  and  orphans  in  second  edition, 
which  (if  you  remember)  you  most  awkwardly  and  illogic- 
ally  caused  to  be  inserted  between  two  Ifs,  to  the  great 
breach  and  disunion  of  said  Ifs,  which  now  meet  again 
(as  in  first  edition),  like  two  clever  lawyers  arguing  a 
case.  Another  reason  for  subtracting  the  pathos  was, 
that  the  "  Man  of  Ross  "  is  too  familiar  to  need  telling 
what  he  did,  especially  in  worse  lines  than  Pope  told  it, 
and  it  now  stands  simply  as  "  Reflections  at  an  Inn  about 
a  known  Character,"  and  sucking  an  old  story  into  an 
accommodation  with  present  feelings.  Here  is  no  break- 
ing spears  with  Pope,  but  a  new,  independent,  and  really 
a  very  pretty  poem.  In  fact  'tis  as  I  used  to  admire  it 
in  the  first  volume,  and  I  have  even  dared  to  restore 

"If  neath  this  roof  thy  wine  cheer' d  moments  pass," 
for 

"Beneath  this  roof  if  thy  cheer'd  moments  pass." 


206  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

"Cheer'd"  is  a  sad  general  word,  "wine-checr'd"  I'm 
sure  you'd  give  me,  if  I  had  a  speaking-trumpet  to  sound 
to  you  300  miles.  But  I  am  your  factotum,-  and  that 
(save  in  this  instance,  which  is  a  single  case,  and  I  can't 
get  at  you)  shall  be  next  to  a  fac-nikil — at  most  a  fac- 
simile, I  have  ordered  "Imitation  of  Spenser"  to  be 
restored  on  Wordsworth's  authority  ;  and  no\v,  all  that 
you  will  miss  will  be  "  Flicker  and  Flicker's  Wife,"  "  The 
Thimble,"  "  Breathe  dear  harmonist,"  and  /  believe, 
"  The  Child  that  was  fed  with  Manna."  Another  volume 
will  clear  off  all  your  Anthologic  Morning-Postian  Epis- 
tolary Miscellanies ;  but  pray  don't  put  "  Christabel " 
therein ;  don't  let  that  sweet  maid  come  forth  attended 
with  Lady  Holland's  mob  at  her  heels.  Let  there  be 
a  separate  volume  of  Tales,  Choice  Tales,  "Ancient 
Mariners,"  etc.  A  word  of  your  health  will  be  richly 
acceptable.  C.  LAMB. 

To  Liu.  RICKMAN. 

LETTER  CIV.]  Saturday  Morning,  July  16,  1803. 

Dear  Rickman — I  enclose  you  a  wonder,  a  letter  from 
the  shades.  A  dead  body  wants  to  return,  and  be  inrolled 
inter  vivos.  'Tis  a  gentle  ghost,  and  in  this  Galvanic  age 
it  may  have  a  chance. 

Mary  and  I  are  setting  out  for  the  Isle  of  Wight. 
We  make  but  a  short  stay,  and  shall  pass  the  time  betwixt 
that  place  and  Portsmouth,  where  Fenwick  is.  I  sadly 
wanted  to  explore  the  Peak  this  Summer ;  but  Mary  is 
against  steering  without  card  or  compass,  and  we  should 
be  at  large  in  Darbyshire. 

We  shall  be  at  home  this  night  and  to-morrow,  if  you 
can  come  and  take  a  farewell  pipe. 

I  regularly  transmitted  your  Notices  to  the  Morning 
Post,  but  they  have  not  been  duly  honoured.  The  fault 
lay  not  in  me. — Yours  truly,  C.  LAMB. 


TO  GODWIN.  207 

To  WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

LETTER  CV.]  November  8,  1803. 

My  dear  Sir — I  have  been  sitting  down  for  three  or 
four  days  successively  to  the  review,  which  I  so  much 
wished  to  do  well,  arid  to  your  satisfaction.  But  I  can 
produce  nothing  but  absolute  flatness  and  nonsense.  My 
health  and  spirits  are'so  bad,  and  my  nerves  so  irritable, 
that  I  am  sure,  if  I  persist,  I  shall  tease  myself  into  a 
fever.  You  do  not  know  how  sore  and  weak  a  brain  I 
have,  or  you  would  allow  for  many  things  in  me  which 
you  set  down  for  whims.  I  solemuly  assure  you  that  I 
never  more  wished  to  prove  to  you  the  value  which  I 
have  for  you  than  at  this  moment ;  but  although  so 
seemingly  trifling  a  service  I  cannot  get  through  with  it : 
I  pray  you  to  impute  it  to  this  one  sole  cause,  ill  health. 
I  hope  I  am  above  subterfuge,  and  that  you  will  do  me 
this  justice  to  think  so. 

You  will  give  me  great  satisfaction  by  sealing  my 
pardon  and  oblivion  in  a  line  or  two,  before  I  come  to  see 
you,  or  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  come. — Your,  with  great 
truth.  0.  LAMB. 


LETTER.  C VI.]  November  10,  1803. 

Dear  Godwin — You  never  made  a  more  unlucky  and 
perverse  mistake  than  to  suppose  that  the  reason  of  my 
not  writing  that  cursed  thing  was  to  be  found  in  your 
book.  I  assure  you  most  sincerely  that  I  have  been 
greatly  delighted  with  "  Chaucer."  I  may  be  wrong, 
but  I  think  there  is  one  considerable  error  runs  through 
it,  which  is  a  conjecturing  spirit,  a  fondness  for  rilling 
out  the  picture  by  supposing  what  Chaucer  did  and  how 
he  felt,  where  the  materials  are  scanty.  So  far  from 
meaning  to  withhold  from  you  (out  of  mistaken  tender- 
ness) this  opinion  of  mine,  I  plainly  told  Mrs.  Godwin 
that  I  did  find  a  fault,  which  I  should  reserve  naming 


208  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

until  I  should  see  you  and  talk  it  over.  This  she  may  very 
well  remember,  and  also  that  I  declined  naming  this  fault 
until  she  drew  it  from  me  by  asking  me  if  there  was  not 
too  much  fancy  in  the  work.  I  then  confessed  generally 
what  I  felt,  but  refused  to  go  into  particulars  until  I  had 
seen  you.  I  am  never  very  fond  of  saying  things  before 
third  persons,  because  in  the  relation  (such  is  human 
nature)  something  is  sure  to  be  dropped.  If  Mrs.  God- 
win has  been  the  cause  of  your  misconstruction,  I  arn 
very  angry,  tell  her ;  yet  it  is  not  an  anger  unto  death. 
I  remember  also  telling  Mrs.  G-.  (which  she  may  have 
dropt)  that  I  was  by  turns  considerably  more  delighted 
than  I  expected.  But  I  wished  to  reserve  all  this  until 
I  saw  you.  I  even  had  conceived  an  expression  to  meet 
you  with,  which  was  thanking  you  for  some  of  the  most 
exquisite  pieces  of  criticism  I  had  ever  read  in  my  life. 
In  particular,  I  should  have  brought  forward  that  on 
"  Troilus  and  Cressida  "  and  Shakspeare  which,  it  is  little 
to  say,  delighted  me,  and  instructed  me  (if  not  absolutely 
instructed  me,  yet  put  into  full-grown  sense  many  con- 
ceptions which  had  arisen  in  me  before  in  my  most  die- 
criminating  moods).  All  these  things  I  was  preparing 
to  say,  and  bottling  them  up  till  I  came,  thinking  to 
please  my  friend  and  host  the  author,  when  lo  !  this 
deadly  blight  intervened. 

I  certainly  ought  to  make  great  allowances  for  your 
misunderstanding  me.  You,  by  long  habits  of  composition 
and  a  greater  command  gained  over  your  own  powers, 
cannot  conceive  of  the  desultory  and  uncertain  way  in 
which  I  (an  author  by  fits)  sometimes  cannot  put  the 
thoughts  of  a  common  letter  into  sane  prose.  Any  work 
which  I  take  upon  myself  as  an  engagement  will  act  upon 
me  to  torment,  e.g.  when  I  have  undertaken,  as  three  or 
four  times  I  have,  a  schoolboy  copy  of  verses  for  Merchant 
Taylors'  boys,  at  a  guinea  a  copy,  I  have  fretted  over 
them  in  perfect  inability  to  do  them,  and  have  made  my 
Bister  wretched  with  my  wretchedness  for  a  week  together. 
The  same,  till  by  habit  I  have  acquired  a  mechanical 


TO  SOUTHEY.  209 

command,  I  have  felt  in  making  paragraphs.  As  to 
reviewing,  in  particular,  my  head  is  so  whimsical  a  head, 
that  I  cannot,  after  reading  another  man's  book,  let  it 
have  been  never  so  pleasing,  give  any  account  of  it  in  any 
methodical  way.  I  cannot  follow  his  train.  Something 
like  this  you  must  have  perceived  of  me  in  conversation. 
Ten  thousand  times  I  have  confessed  to  you,  talking  of 
my  talents,  my  utter  inability  to  remember  in  any  com- 
prehensive way  what  I  read.  I  can  vehemently  applaud, 
or  perversely  stickle,  at  parts ;  but  I  cannot  grasp  at  a 
whole.  This  infirmity  (which  is  nothing  to  brag  of)  may 
be  seen  in  my  two  little  compositions,  the  tale  and  my 
play,  in  both  which  no  reader,  however  partial,  can  find 
any  story.  I  wrote  such  stuff  about  Chaucer,  and  got 
into  such  digressions,  quite  irreducible  into  1^  column  of 
a  paper,  that  I  was  perfectly  ashamed  to  show  it  you. 
However,  it  is  become  a  serious  matter  that  I  should 
convince  you  I  neither  slunk  from  the  task  through  a 
wilful  deserting  neglect,  or  through  any  (most  imaginary 
on  your  part)  distaste  of  "  Chaucer;"  and  I  will  try  my 
hand  again,  I  hope  with  better  luck.  My  health  is  bad 
and  my  time  taken  up ;  but  all  I  can  spare  between  this 
and  Sunday  shall  be  employed  for  you,  since  you  desire 
it :  and  if  I  bring  you  a  crude,  wretched  paper  on  Sunday, 
you  must  burn  it,  and  forgive  me ;  if  it  proves  anything 
better  than  I  predict,  may  it  be  a  peace-offering  of  sweet 
incense  between  us.  C.  LAMB. 


To  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

LETTER  CVIL]  November  7,  1804. 

Dear  Southey — You  were  the  last  person  from  whom 
we  heard  of  Dyer,  and  if  you  know  where  to  forward  to 
him  the  news  I  now  send  I  shall  be  obliged  to  you  to 
lose  no  time.  Dyer's  sister-in-law,  who  lives  in  St. 
Dunstan's  Court,  wrote  to  him  about  three  weeks  ago  to 
p 


210  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  Hope  Inn,  Cambridge,  to  inform  him  that  Squire 
Houlbert,  or  some  such  name,  of  Denmark  Hill,  has  died, 
and  left  her  husband  a  thousand  pounds,  and  two  or 
three  hundred  to  Dyer.  Her  letter  got  no  answer,  and 
she  does  not  know  where  to  direct  to  him ;  so  she  came 
to  me,  who  am  equally  in  the  dark.  Her  story  is,  that 
Dyer's  immediately  coming  to  town  now,  and  signing 
some  papers,  will  save  him  a  considerable  sum  of  money ; 
how,  I  don't  understand ;  but  it  is  very  right  he  should 
hear  of  this.  She  has  left  me  barely  time  for  the  post ; 
so  I  conclude  with  love  to  all  at  Keswick. 

Dyer's  brother,  who  by  his  wife's  account  has  got 
£1000  left  him,  is  father  of  the  little  dirty  girl,  Dyer's 
niece  and  factotum. — In  haste, 

Yours  truly,  C.  LAMB. 

If  you  send  George  this,  cut  off  the  last  paragraph. 

D.'s  laundress  had  a  letter  a  few  days  since;  but 
George  never  dates. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

16,  Mitre  Court  Buildings, 
LETTER  CVIII.]  Saturday,  February  24,  1805. 

Dear  Manning — I  have  been  very  unwell  since  I  saw 
you :  a  sad  depression  of  spirits,  a  most  unaccountable 
nervousness ;  from  which  I  have  been  partially  relieved 
by  an  odd  accident.  You  knew  Dick  Hopkins,  the  swear- 
ing scullion  of  Cains?  This  fellow,  by  industry  and 
agility,  has  thrust  himself  into  the  important  situations 
(no  sinecures,  believe  me)  of  cook  to  Trinity  Hall  and 
Caius  College :  and  the  generous  creature  has  contrived, 
with  the  greatest  delicacy  imaginable,  to  send  me  a  pre- 
sent of  Cambridge  brawn.  What  makes  it  the  more 
extraordinary  is,  that  the  man  never  saw  me  in  his  life 
that  I  know  of.  I  suppose  he  has  heard  of  me.  I 
did  not  immediately  recognise  the  donor;  but  one  of 
Richard's  cards,  which  had  accidentally  fallen  into  the 


TO  MANNING.  211 

straw,  detected  him  in  a  moment.  Dick,  you  know,  was 
always  remarkable  for  flourishing.  His  card  imports,  that 
"orders  (to  wit,  for  brawn)  from  any  part  of  England, 
Scotland,  or  Ireland,  will  be  duly  executed,"  etc.  At 
first,  I  thought  of  declining  the  present ;  but  Richard 
knew  my  blind  side  when  he  pitched  upon  brawn.  'Tis 
of  all  my  hobbies  the  supreme  in  the  eating  way.  He 
might  have  sent  sops  from  the  pan,  skimmings,  crumpets, 
chips,  hog's  lard,  the  tender  brown  judiciously  scalped  from 
a  fillet  of  veal  (dexterously  replaced  by  a  salamander),  the 
tops  of  asparagus,  fugitive  livers,  runaway  gizzards  of 
fowls,  the  eyes  of  martyred  pigs,  tender  effusions  of  laxa- 
tive woodcocks,  the  red  spawn  of  lobsters,  leverets'  ears, 
and  such  pretty  filchings  common  to  cooks;  but  these 
had  been  ordinary  presents,  the  everyday  courtesies  of 
dish-washers  to  their  sweethearts.  Brawn  was  a  noble 
thought.  It  is  not  every  common  gullet-fancier  that  can 
properly  esteem  it.  It  is  like  a  picture  of  one  of  the 
choice  old  Italian  masters.  Its  gusto  is  of  that  hidden 
sort.  As  Wordsworth  sings  of  a  modest  poet, — "you 
must  love  him,  ere  to  you  he  will  seem  worthy  of  your 
love;"  so  brawn,  you  must  taste  it  ere  to  you  it  will 
seem  to  have  any  taste  at  all.  But  'tis  nuts  to  the  adept : 
those  that  will  send  out  their  tongue  and  feelers  to  find 
it  out.  It  will  be  wooerl  and  not  unsought  be  won. 
Now,  ham-essence,  lobsters,  turtle,  such  popular  minions, 
absolutely  court  you,  lay  themselves  out  to  strike  you  at 
first  smack,  like  one  of  David's  pictures  (they  call  him 
Darveed)  compared  with  the  plain  russet-coated  wealth 
of  a  Titian  or  a  Correggio,  as  I  illustrated  above.  Such 
are  the  obvious  glaring  heathen  virtues  of  a  corporation 
dinner,  compared  with  the  reserved  collegiate  worth  of 
brawn.  Do  me  the  favour  to  leave  off  the  business 
which  you  may  be  at  present  upon,  and  go  immediately 
to  the  kitchens  of  Trinity  and  Caius,  and  make  my  most 
respectful  compliments  to  Mr.  Eichard  Hopkins,  and 
assure  him  that  his  brawn  is  most  excellent ;  and  that  I 
am  moreover  obliged  to  him  for  his  innuendo  about  salt 


212  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

water  and  bran,  which  I  shall  not  fail  to  improve.  1 
leave  it  to  you  whether  you  shall  choose  to  pay  him  the 
civility  of  asking  him  to  dinner  while  you  stay  in  Cam- 
bridge, or  in  whatever  other  way  you  may  best  like  to 
show  your  gratitude  to  my  friend.  Richard  Hopkins, 
considered  in  many  points  of  view,  is  a  very  extraordinary 
character.  Adieu.  I  hope  to  see  you  to  supper  in 
London  soon,  where  we  will  taste  Richard's  brawn,  and 
drink  his  health  in  a  cheerful  but  moderate  cup.  We 
have  not  many  such  men  in  any  rank  of  life  as  Mr.  R. 
Hopkins.  Crisp,  the  barber,  of  St.  Mary's,  was  just  such 
another.  I  wonder  he  never  sent  me  any  little  token, 
some  chestnuts,  or  a  puff,  or  two  pound  of  hair  :  just  to 
remember  him  by.  Gifts  are  like  nails.  Prcesens  ut 
absens ;  that  is,  your  present  makes  amends  for  your 
absence. 

Yours,  0.  LAMB. 


To  Miss  WORDSWORTH. 
LETTER  CIX.]  June  14,  1805. 

My  dear  Miss  Wordsworth — Your  long  kind  letter 
has  not  been  thrown  away  (for  it  has  given  me  great 
pleasure  to  find  you  are  all  resuming  your  old  occupations, 
and  are  better) ;  but  poor  Mary,  to  whom  it  is  addressed, 
cannot  yet  relish  it.  She  has  been  attacked  by  one  of 
her  severe  illnesses,  and  is  at  present  from  home.  Last 
Monday  week  was  the  day  she  left  me,  and  I  hope  I  may 
calculate  upon  having  her  again  in  a  month  or  little  more. 
I  am  rather  afraid  late  hours  have  in  this  case  contributed 
to  her  indisposition.  But  when  she  discovers  symptoms 
of  approaching  illness,  it  is  not  easy  to  say  what  is  best 
to  do.  Being  by  ourselves  is  bad,  and  going  out  is  bad. 
I  get  so  irritable  and  wretched  with  fear,  that  I  con- 
stantly hasten  on  the  disorder.  You  cannot  conceive  the 
misery  of  such  a  foresight.  I  am  sure  that,  for  the  week 
before  she  left  me,  I  was  little  better  than  light-headed. 


TO  MISS  WORDSWORTH.  213 

I  now  am  calm,  but  sadly  taken  down  and  flat.  I  have 
every  reason  to  suppose  that  this  illness,  like  all  her 
former  ones,  will  be  but  temporary ;  but  I  cannot  always 
feel  so.  Meantime  she  is  dead  to  me,  and  I  miss  a  prop. 
All  my  strength  is  gone,  and  I  am  like  a  fool,  bereft  of 
her  co-operation.  I  dare  not  think,  lest  I  should  think 
wrong ;  so  used  am  I  to  look  up  to  her  in  the  least  and 
the  biggest  perplexity.  To  say  all  that  I  know  of  her 
would  be  more  than  I  think  anybody  could  believe,  or 
even  understand ;  and  when  I  hope  to  have  her  well 
again  with  me,  it  would  be  sinning  against  her  feelings 
to  go  about  to  praise  her ;  for  I  can  conceal  nothing  that 
I  do  from  her.  She  is  older  and  wiser  and  better  than 
I,  and  all  my  wretched  imperfections  I  cover  to  myself 
by  resolutely  thinking  on  her  goodness.  She  would  share 
life  and  death,  heaven  and  hell,  with  me.  She  lives  but 
for  me ;  and  I  know  I  have  been  wasting  and  teasing  her 
life  for  five  years  past  incessantly  with  my  cursed  drink- 
ing and  ways  of  going  on.  But  even  in  this  upbraiding 
of  myself  I  am  offending  against  her,  for  I  know  that 
she  has  cleaved  to  me  for  better,  for  worse ;  and  if  the 
balance  has  been  against  her  hitherto,  it  was  a  noble 
trade.  I  am  stupid,  and  lose  myself  in  what  I  write. 
I  write  rather  what  answers  to  my  feelings  (which  are 
sometimes  sharp  enough)  than  express  my  present  ones, 
for  I  am  only  flat  and  stupid.  I  am  sure  you  will  excuse 
my  writing  any  more,  I  am  so  very  poorly. 

I  cannot  resist  transcribing  three  or  four  lines  which 
poor  Mary  made  upon  a  picture  (a  Holy  Family)  which 
we  saw  at  an  auction  only  one  week  before  she  left  home. 
She  was  then  beginning  to  show  signs  of  ill  boding. 
They  are  sweet  lines  and  upon  a  sweet  picture ;  but  I 
send  them  only  as  the  last  memorial  of  her. 

"  VIRGIN  AND  CHILD,  L.  DA  VINCI. 

"  Maternal  Lady,  with  thy  virgin  grace, 
Heaven-born,  thy  Jesus  seeraeth  sure, 
And  thou  a  virgin  pure. 
Lady  most  perfect,  when  thy  angel  face 


214  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

lien  look  upon,  they  wish  to  be 

A  Catholic,  Madonna  lair,  to  worship  tliee." 

You  had  her  lines  about  the  "Lady  Blanch."  You 
have  not  had  some  which  she  wrote  upon  a  copy  of  a 
girl  from  Titian,  which  I  had  hung  up  where  that  print 
of  Blanch  and  the  Abbess  (as  she  beautifully  interpreted 
two  female  figures  from  L.  da  Vinci)  had  hung  in  our 
room.  'Tis  light  and  pretty  : — 

"  Who  art  thou,  fair  one,  who  usurp' st  the  place 
Of  Blanch,  the  lady  of  the  matchless  grace  ? 
Come,  fair  and  pretty,  tell  to  me 
Who  in  thy  lifetime  thou  mightst  be  ? 
Thou  pretty  art  and  fair, 

But  with  the  Lady  Blanch  thou  never  must  compare. 
No  need  for  Blanch  her  history  to  tell, 
Whoever  saw  her  face,  they  there  did  read  it  well ; 
But  when  I  leak  on  thee,  I  only  know 
There  lived  a  pretty  maid  some  hundred  years  ago." 

This  is  a  little  unfair,  to  tell  so  much  about  ourselves, 
and  to  advert  BO  little  to  your  letter,  so  full  of  comfort- 
able tidings  of  you  all.  But  my  own  cares  press  pretty 
close  upon  me,  and  you  can  make  allowance.  That  you 
may  go  on  gathering  strength  and  peace  is  my  next  wish 
to  Mary's  recovery. 

I  had  almost  forgot  your  repeated  invitation.  Suppos- 
ing that  Mary  will  be  well  and  able,  there  is  another 
ability  which  you  may  guess  at,  which  I  cannot  promise 
myself.  In  prudence  we  ought  not  to  come.  This  illness 
will  make  it  still  more  prudential  to  wait.  It  is  not  a 
balance  of  this  way  of  spending  our  money  against 
another  way,  but  an  absolute  question  of  whether  we 
shall  stop  now,  or  go  on  wasting  away  the  little  we  have 
got  beforehand,  which  my  wise  conduct  has  already  en- 
croach'd  upon  one  half.  My  best  love,  however,  to  you 
all;  and  to  that  most  friendly  creature,  Mrs.  Clarkson, 
and  better  health  to  her,  when  you  see  or  write  to  her. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  215 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTER  CX.]  June  2C,  1805. 

Mary  is  just  stuck  fast  in  "All's  Well  that  Ends 
Well."  She  complains  of  having  to  set  forth  so  many 
female  characters  in  boys'  clothes.  She  begins  to  think 
Shakspeare  must  have  wanted — imagination  !  I,  to  en- 
courage her  (for  she  often  faints  in  the  prosecution  of 
her  great  work),  flatter  her  with  telling  her  how  well 
such  a  play  and  such  a  play  is  done.  But  she  is  stuck 
fast,  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  promise  to  assist  her. 
To  do  this  it  will  be  necessary  to  leave  off  tobacco.  But 
I  had  some  thoughts  of  doing  that  before,  for  I  some- 
times think  it  does  not  agree  with  me.  Wm.  Hazlitt  is 
in  town.  I  took  him  to  see  a  very  pretty  girl,  profes- 
sedly, where  there  were  two  young  girls  (the  very  head 
and  sum  of  the  girlery  was  two  young  girls) ;  they 
neither  laughed,  nor  sneered,  nor  giggled,  nor  whispered 
— but  they  were  young  girls — and  he  sat  and  frowned 
blacker  and  blacker,  indignant  that  there  should  be  such 
a  thing  as  youth  and  beauty,  till  he  tore  me  away  before 
supper,  in  perfect  misery,  and  owned  he  could  not  bear 
young  girls ;  they  drove  him  mad.  So  I  took  him  home 
to  my  -old  nurse,  where  he  recovered  perfect  tranquillity. 
Independent  of  this,  and  as  I  am  not  a  young  girl  myself, 
he  is  a  great  acquisition  to  us.  He  is,  rather  imprudently 
I  think,  printing  a  political  pamphlet  on  his  own  account, 
and  will  have  to  pay  for  the  paper,  etc.  The  first  duty 
of  an  author,  I  take  it,  is  never  to  pay  anything.  But 
non  cuivis  contigit  adire  Corinthitm.  The  managers,  I 
thank  my  stars,  have  settled  that  question  for  me. 

Yours  truly,  0.  LAMB. 


216  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  CXL]  [July  27,  1805.] 

Dear  Archimedes — Things  have  gone  on  badly  with 
thy  ungeometrical  friend ;  but  they  are  on  the  turn.  My 
old  housekeeper  has  shown  signs  of  convalescence,  and 
will  shortly  resume  the  power  of  the  keys,  so  I  shan't  be 
cheated  of  my  tea  and  liquors.  Wind  in  the  West,  which 
promotes  tranquillity.  Have  leisure  now  to  anticipate 
seeing  thee  again.  Have  been  taking  leave  of  tobacco  in 
a  rhyming  address.  Had  thought  t/iat  vein  had  long 
since  closed  up.  Find  I  can  rhyme  and  reason  too.' 
Think  of  studying  mathematics,  to  restrain  the  fire  of  my 
genius,  which  G.  D.  recommends.  Have  frequent  bleed- 
ings at  the  nose,  which  shows  plethoric.  Maybe  shall 
try  the  sea  myself,  that  great  scene  of  wonders.  Got 
incredibly  sober  and  regular ;  shave  oftener,  and  hum  a 
tune,  to  signify  cheerfulness  and  gallantry. 

Suddenly  disposed  to  sleep,  having  taken  a  quart  of 
pease  with  bacon  and  stout.  Will  not  refuse  Nature, 
who  has  done  such  things  for  me  ! 

Nurse !  don't  call  me  unless  Mr.  Manning  comes. — • 
What !  the  gentleman  in  spectacles  1 — Yes, 

Dormit.  0.  L. 

Saturday, 
Hot  Noon. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTER  CXIL]  September  28,  1805. 

My  dear  Wordsworth  (or  Dorothy  rather,  for  to  you 
appertains  the  biggest  part  of  this  answer  by  right) — 
I  will  not  again  deserve  reproach  by  so  long  a  silence. 
I  have  kept  deluding  myself  with  the  idea  that  Mary 
would  write  to  you,  but  she  is  so  lazy  (or,  wbirh  I 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  217 

believe  is  the  true  state  of  the  case,  so  diffident),  that  it 
must  revert  to  me  as  usual.  Though  she  writes  a  pretty 
good  style,  and  has  some  notion  of  the  force  of  words, 
she  is  not  always  so  certain  of  the  true  orthography  of 
them ;  and  that,  and  a  poor  handwriting  (in  this  age  of 
female  calligraphy),  often  deters  her,  where  no  other 
reason  does. 

We  have  neither  of  us  been  very  well  for  some  weeks 
past.  I  am  very  nervous,  and  she  most  so  at  those 
times  when  I  am ;  so  that  a  merry  friend,  adverting  to 
the  noble  consolation  we  were  able  to  afford  each  other, 
denominated  us,  not  unaptly,  Gum-boil  and  Tooth-Ache, 
for  they  used  to  say  that  a  gum-boil  is  a  great  relief  to  a 
tooth-ache. 

We  have  been  two  tiny  excursions  this  Summer,  for 
three  or  four  days  each,  to  a  place  near  Harrow,  and  to 
Egham,  where  Cooper's  Hill  is :  and  that  is  the  total 
history  of  our  rustications  this  year.  Alas  !  how  poor  a 
round  to  Skiddaw  and  Helvellyn,  and  Borrowdale,  and 
the  magnificent  sesquipedalia  of  the  year  1802  !  Poor 
old  Molly !  to  have  lost  her  pride,  that  "  last  infirmity 
of  noble  minds,"  and  her  cow.  Fate  need  not  have  set 
her  wits  to  such  an  old  Molly.  I  am  heartily  sorry  for 
her.  Remember  us  lovingly  to  her;  and  in  particular 
remember  us  to  Mrs.  Clarkson  in  the  most  kind  manner. 

I  hope,  by  "  southwards,"  you  mean  that  she  will  be 
at  or  near  London,  for  she  is  a  great  favourite  of  both  of 
us,  and  we  feel  for  her  health  as  much  as  possible  for  any 
one  to  do.  She  is  one  of  the  friendliest,  comfortablest 
women  we  know,  and  made  our  little  stay  at  your  cottage 
one  of  the  pleasantest  times  we  ever  past.  We  were  quite 
strangers  to  her.  Mr.  C.  is  with  you  too ;  our  kindest 
separate  remembrances  to  him.  As  to  our  special  affairs, 
I  am  looking  about  me.  I  have  done  nothing  since  the 
beginning  of  last  year,  when  I  lost  my  newspaper  job ; 
and  having  had  a  long  idleness,  I  must  do  something,  or 
we  shall  get  very  poor.  Sometimes  I  think  of  a  farce, 
but  hitherto  all  schemes  have  gone  off;  an  idle  brag  or 


218  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAME. 

two  of  an  evening,  vapouring  out  of  a  pipe,  and  going  off 
in  the  morning ;  but  now  I  have  bid  farewell  to  my 
"sweet  enemy,"  Tobacco,  I  shall  perhaps  set  nobly  to 
work.  Hang  work ! 

I  wish  that  all  the  year  were  holiday;  I  am  sure  that 
indolence — indefeasible  indolence — is  the  true  state  of 
man,  and  business  the  invention  of  the  old  Teazer,  whose 
interference  doomed  Adam  to  an  apron  and  set  him  a 
hoeing.  Pen  and  ink,  and  clerks  and  desks,  were  the 
refinements  of  this  old  torturer  some  thousand  years  after, 
under  pretence  of  "  Commerce  allying  distant  shores, 
promoting  and  diffusing  knowledge,  good,"  etc.  etc. 

I  wish  you  may  think  this  a  handsome  farewell  to 
my  "  Friendly  Traitress."  Tobacco  has  been  my  evening 
comfort  and  my  morning  curse  for  these  five  years ;  and 
you  know  how  difficult  it  is  from  refraining  to  pick  one's 
lips  even,  when  it  has  become  a  habit.  This  poem  is 
the  only  one  which  I  have  finished  since  so  long  as  when 
I  wrote  "  Hester  Savory."  I  have  had  it  in  my  head  to 
do  it  these  two  years,  but  tobacco  stood  in  its  own  light 
when  it  gave  me  headaches  that  prevented  my  singing 
its  praises.  Now  you  have  got  it,  you  have  got  all  my 
store,  for  I  have  absolutely  not  another  line.  No  more 
has  Mary.  We  have  nobody  about  us  that  cares  for 
poetry ;  and  who  will  rear  grapes  when  he  shall  be  the 
sole  eater?  Perhaps  if  you  encourage  us  to  show  you 
what  we  may  write,  we  may  do  something  now  and  then 
before  we  absolutely  forget  the  quantity  of  an  English 
line  for  want  of  practice.  The  "  Tobacco,"  being  a  little 
in  the  way  of  Wither  (whom  Southey  so  much  likes), 
perhaps  you  will  somehow  convey  it  to  him  with  my  kind 
remembrances.  Then,  everybody  will  have  seen  it  that 
I  wish  to  see  it,  I  having  sent  it  to  Malta. 

I  remain,  dear  W.  and  D.,  yours  truly, 

0.  LAMB, 


TO  HAZLITT.  219 


To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

LETTER  CXIII.]  November  10,  1805. 

Dear  Hazlitt — I  was  very  glad  to  hear  from  you,  and 
that  your  journey  was  so  picturesque.  We  miss  you,  as 
we  foretold  we  should.  One  or  two  things  have  happened, 
which  are  beneath  the  dignity  of  epistolary  communica- 
tion, but  which,  seated  about  our  fireside  at  night  (the 
winter  hands  of  pork  have  begun),  gesture  and  emphasis 
might  have  talked  into  some  irriportance.  Something 
about  Rickman's  wife ;  for  instance,  how  tall  she  is,  and 
that  she  visits  pranked  up  like  a  Queen  of  the  May,  with 
green  streamers :  a  good-natured  woman  though,  which 
is  as  much  as  you  can  expect  from  a  friend's  wife,  whom 
you  got  acquainted  with  a  bachelor.  Some  things  too 
about  Monkey,  which  can't  so  well  be  written :  how  it 
set  up  for  a  fine  lady,  and  thought  it  had  got  lovers,  and 
was  obliged  to  be  convinced  of  its  age  from  the  parish 
register,  where  it  was  proved  to  be  only  twelve ;  and  an 
edict  issued,  that  it  should  not  give  itsdf  airs  yet  these 
four  years ;  and  how  it  got  leave  to  be  called  Miss,  by 
grace ;  these,  and  such  like  hows,  were  in  my  head  to 
tell  you;  but  who  can  write?  Also  how  Manning  is 
come  to  town  in  spectacles,  and  studies  physic ;  is  melan- 
choly, and  seems  to  have  something  in  his  head,  which 
he  don't  impart.  Then,  how  I  am  going  to  leave  off 
smoking.  0  la !  your  Leonardos  of  Oxford  made  my 
mouth  water.  I  was  hurried  through  the  gallery,  and 
they  escaped  me.  What  do  I  say  ?  I  was  a  Goth  then, 
and  should  not  have  noticed  them.  I  had  not  settled 
my  notions  of  beauty  :  I  have  now  for  ever  ! — the  small 
head,  the  long  eye, — that  sort  of  peering  curve, — the 
wicked  Italian  mischief;  the  stick-at-nothing,  Herodias's 
daughter  kind  of  grace.  You  understand  me  ?  But  you 
disappoint  me  in  passing  over  in  absolute  silence  the 
Blenheim  Leonardo.  Didn't  you  see  it?  Excuse  a 
lover's  curiosity.  I  have  seen  no  pictures  of  note  since, 


220  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

except  Mr.  Dawe's  gallery.  It  is  curious  to  see  how 
differently  two  great  men  treat  the  same  subject,  yet  both 
excellent  in  their  way.  For  instance,  Milton  and  Mr. 
Dawe.  Mr.  D.  has  chosen  to  illustrate  the  story  of 
Samson  exactly  in  the  point  of  view  in  which  Milton  has 
been  most  happy  :  the  interview  between  the  Jewish  hero, 
blind  and  captive,  and  Delilah.  Milton  has  imagined 
his  locks  grown  again,  strong  as  horse-hair  or  porcupine's 
bristles;  doubtless  shaggy  and  black,  as  being  hairs 
"  which,  of  a  nation  armed,  contained  the  strength."  I 
don't  remember  he  says  black ;  but  could  Milton  imagine 
them  to  be  yellow  1  Do  you  ?  Mr.  Dawe,  with  striking 
originality  of  conception,  has  crowned  him  with  a  thin 
yellow  wig,  in  colour  precisely  like  Dyson's ;  in  curl  and 
quantity,  resembling  Mrs.  Professor's ;  his  limbs  rather 
stout, — about  such  a  man  as  my  brother  or  Rickman, — 
but  no  Atlas  nor  Hercules,  nor  yet  so  long  as  Dubois, 
the  clown  of  Sadler's  Wells.  This  was  judicious,  taking 
the  spirit  of  the  story  rather  than  the  fact ;  for  doubtless 
God  could  communicate  national  salvation  to  the  trust  of 
flax  and  tow  as  well  as  hemp  and  cordage,  and  could 
draw  down  a  temple  with  a  golden  tress  as  soon  as  with 
all  the  cables  of  the  British  navy. 

•  Wasn't  you  sorry  for  Lord  Nelson  ?  I  have  followed 
him  in  fancy  ever  since  I  saw  him  walking  in  Pall  Mall 
(I  was  prejudiced  against  him  before),  looking  just  as  a 
hero  should  look ;  and  I  have  been  very  much  cut  about 
it  indeed.  He  was  the  only  pretence  of  a  great  man  we 
had.  Nobody  is  left  of  any  name  at  all  His  secretary 
died  by  his  side.  I  imagined  him  a  Mr.  Scott,  to  be  the 
man  you  met  at  Hume's ;  but  I  learnt  from  Mrs.  Hume 
that  it  is  not  the  same.  I  met  Mrs.  H.  one  day,  and 
agreed  to  go  on  the  Sunday  to  tea,  but  the  rain  prevented 
us,  and  the  distance.  I  have  been  to  apologise,  and  we 
are  to  dine  there  the  first  fine  Sunday.  Strange  perverse- 
ness  !  I  never  went  while  you  stayed  here ;  and  now  I 
go  to  find  you  !  What  other  news  is  there,  Mary  1  What 
puns  have  I  made  in  the  last  fortnight1?  You  never 


TO  MANNING.  221 

remember  them.  You  have  no  relish  for  the  comic. 
"Oh!  tell  Hazlitt  not  to  forget  to  send  the  American 
Farmer.  I  daresay  it  is  not  so  good  as  he  fancies ;  but 
a  book's  a  book."  I  have  not  heard  from  Wordsworth 
or  from  Malta  since.  Charles  Kemble,  it  seems,  enters 
into  possession  to-morrow.  We  sup  at  109  Russell  Street, 
this  evening.  I  wish  your  brother  would  not  drink. 
'Tis  a  blemish  in  the  greatest  characters.  You  send  me 
a  modern  quotation  poetical.  How  do  you  like  this  in 
an  old  play  ?  Vittoria  Corombona,  a  spunky  Italian  lady, 
a  Leonardo  one,  nicknamed  the  White  Devil,  being  on 
her  trial  for  murder,  etc. — and  questioned  about  seducing 
a  duke  from  his  wife  and  the  state,  makes  answer : — 

"  Condemn  you  me  for  that  the  Duke  did  love  me  t 
So  may  you  blame  some  fair  and  crystal  river, 
For  that  some  melancholic  distracted  man 
Hath  drown'd  himself  in  it." 

N.B. — I  shall  expect  a  line  from  you,  if  but  a  bare 
line,  whenever  you  write  to  Russell  Street,  and  a  letter 
often  when  you  do  not.  I  pay  no  postage ;  but  I  will 
have  consideration  for  you  until  Parliament  time  and 
franks.  Luck  to  Ned  Search,  and  the  new  art  of  colour- 
ing. Monkey  sends  her  love ;  and  Mary  especially. 

Yours  truly,  0.  LAMB. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 
LETTER  CXIV.]  [November  15, 1805.] 

Dear  Manning — Certainly  you  could  not  have  called 
at  all  hours  from  two  till  ten,  for  we  have  been  only  out 
of  an  evening  Monday  and  Tuesday  in  this  week.  But 
if  you  think  you  have,  your  thought  shall  go  for  the  deed. 
We  did  pray  for  you  on  Wednesday  night.  Oysters 
unusually  luscious ;  pearls  of  extraordinary  magnitude 
found  in  them.  I  have  made  bracelets  of  them ;  given 
them  in  clusters  to  ladies.  Last  night  we  went  out  in 
despite,  because  you  were  not  come  at  your  hour. 


222  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

This  night  we  shall  be  at  home ;  so  shall  we  certainly,, 
both,  on  Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday. 
Take  your  choice,  mind  I  don't  say  of  one :  but  choose 
which  evening  you  will  not  come,  and  come  the  other 
four.  Doors  open  at  five  o'clock  Shells  forced  about 
time.  Every  gentleman  smokes  or  not  as  he  pleases. 

C.  L. 


To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 
LETTER  CXV.]  January  15,  1806. 

Dear  Hazlitt — Godwin  went  to  Johnson's  yesterday 
about  your  business.  Johnson  would  not  come  down,  or 
give  any  answer,  but  has  promised  to  open  the  manuscript, 
and  to  give  you  an  answer  in  one  month.  Godwin  will 
punctually  go  again  (Wednesday  is  Johnson's  open  day) 
yesterday  four  weeks  next :  i.e.  in  one  lunar  month  from 
this  time ;  till  when,  Johnson  positively  declines  giving 
any  answer.  I  wish  you  joy  on  ending  your  Search. 
Mrs.  H.  was  naming  something  about  a  "Life  of  Faw- 
cett,"  to  be  by  you  undertaken  :  the  great  Fawcett,  as 
she  explained  to  Manning,  when  he  asked,  "  What  Faw- 
cett ?"  He  innocently  thought  Fawcett  the  Player.  But 
Fawcett  the  divine  is  known  to  many  people,  albeit 
unknown  to  the  Chinese  inquirer.  I  should  think,  if  you 
liked  it,  and  Johnson  declined  it,  that  Phillips  is  the  man. 
He  is  perpetually  bringing  out  biographies, — Richardson, 
Wilks,  Foot,  Lee  Lewis, — without  number :  little  trim 
things  in  two  easy  volumes,  price  12s.  the  two,  made  up 
of  letters  to  and  from,  scraps,  posthumous  trifles,  anec- 
dotes, and  about  forty  pages  of  hard  biography.  You 
might  dish  up  a  Fawcettiad  in  three  months,  and  ask 
£60  or  £80  for  it.  I  should  dare  say  that  Phillips  would 
catch  at  it.  I  wrote  to  you  the  other  day  in  a  great 
hurry.  Did  you  get  it  ?  This  is  merely  a  letter  of  busi- 
ness at  Godwin's  request.  Lord  Nelson  is  quiet  at  last. 
His  ghost  only  keeps  a  slight  fluttering  in  odes  and 


TO  RICKMAN.  223 

elegies  in  newspapers,  and  impromptus,  which  could  not 
be  got  ready  before  the  funeral. 

As  for  news,  Fen  wick  is  coming  to  town  jn  Monday 
(if  no  kind  angel  intervene)  to  surrender  himself  to  prison. 
He  hopes  to  get  the  rules  of  the  Fleet.  On  the  same,  or 
nearly  the  same  day,  Fell,  my  other  quondam  co  friend 
and  drinker,  will  go  to  Newgate,  and  his  wife  and  four 
children,  I  suppose,  to  thev  parish.  Plenty  of  reflection 
and  motives  of  gratitude  to  the  wise  Disposer  of  all 
things  in  us,  whose  prudent  conduct  has  hitherto  ensured 
us  a  warm  fire  and  snug  roof  over  our  heads.  Nidlum 
numen  abest  si  sit  Prudenlia.  Alas  !  Prudentia  is  in  the 
last  quarter  of  her  tutelary  shining  over  me.  A  little 

time  and  I ;  but  maybe  I  may,  at  last,  hit  upon 

some  mode  of  collecting  some  of  the  vast  superfluities  of 
this  money-voiding  town.  Much  is  to  be  got,  and  I  do 
not  want  much.  All  I  ask  is  time  and  leisure ;  and  I 
am  cruelly  off  for  them.  When  you  have  the  inclination, 
I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  a  letter  from  you.  Your 
brother  and  Mrs.  H.,  I  am  afraid,  think  hardly  of  us  for 
not  coming  oftener  to  see  them ;  but  we  are  distracted 
beyond  what  they  can  conceive  with  visitors  and  visitings. 
I  never  have  an  hour  for  my  head  to  work  quietly  its  own 
workings  ;  which  you  know  is  as  necessary  to  the  human 
system  as  sleep.  Sleep,  too,  I  can't  get  for  these  winds 
of  a  night :  and  without  sleep  and  rest  what  should 
ensue  ?  Lunacy.  But  I  trust  it  won't. 

Yours,  dear  H.,  0.  LAMB. 


To  ME,  EICKMAN. 

LETTER  CXVL]  January  25,  1806. 

Dear  Rickman — You  do  not  happen  to  have  any  place 
at  your  disposal  which  would  suit  a  decayed  Literatus  ? 
I  do  not  much  expect  that  you  have,  or  that  you  will  go 
much  out  of  the  way  to  seive  the  object,  when  you  hear 
it  is  FelL  But  the  case  is,  by  a  mistaking  of  his  turn, 


224  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

as  they  call  it,  he  is  reduced,  I  am  afraid,  to  extremities, 
and  would  be  extremely  glad  of  a  place  in  an  office. 
Now  it  does  sometimes  happen,  that  just  as  a  man  wants 
a  place,  a  place  wants  him ;  and  though  this  is  a  lottery 
to  which  none  but  G.  Burnett  would  choose  to  trust  his 
all,  there  is  no  harm  just  to  call  in  at  Despair's  office  for 
a  friend,  and  see  if  his  number  is  come  up  (Burnett's 
further  case  I  enclose  by  way  of  episode).  Now,  if  you 
should  happen,  or  anybody  you  know,  to  want  a  hand, 
here  is  a  young  man  of  solid  but  not  brilliant  genius, 
who  would  turn  his  hand  to  the  making  out  of  dockets, 
penning  a  manifesto,  or  scoring  a  tally,  not  the  worse  (I 
hope)  for  knowing  Latin  and  Greek,  and  having  in  youth 
conversed  with  the  philosophers.  But  from  these  follies 
I  believe  he  is  thoroughly  awakened,  and  would  bind 
himself  by  a  terrible  oath  never  to  imagine  himself  an 
extraordinary  genius  again. 

Yours,  etc.,  0.  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

LETTER  CXVIL]  February  19,  1806. 

Dear  H. — Godwin  has  just  been  here  in  his  way  from 
Johnson's.  Johnson  has  had  a  fire  in  his  house ;  this 
happened  about  five  weeks  ago ;  it  was  in  the  daytime, 
so  it  did  not  burn  the  house  down,  but  it  did  so  much 
damage  that  the  house  must  come  down,  to  be  repaired. 
His  nephew  that  we  met  on  Hampstead  Hill  put  it  out. 
Well,  this  fire  has  put  him  so  back,  that  he  craves  one 
more  month  before  he  gives  you  an  answer.  I  will 
certainly  goad  Godwin  (if  necessary)  to  go  again  this  very 
day  four  weeks ;  but  I  am  confident  he  will  want  no 
goading.  Three  or  four  most  capital  auctions  of  pictures 
are  advertised :  in  May,  Wellbore  Ellis  Agar's,  the  first 
private  collection  in  England,  so  Holcroft  says ;  in  March. 
Sir  George  Young's  in  Stratford  Place  (where  Cosway 


TO  HAZLITT.  225 

lives),  and  a  Mr.  Hulse's  at  Blackheath,  both  very  capital 
collections,  and  have  been  announced  for  some  months. 
Also  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne's  pictures  in  March ;  and 
though  inferior  to  mention,  lastly,  the  Tructhsessian 
Gallery.  Don't  your  mouth  water  to  be  here  ?  T'other 
night  Loftus  called,  whom  we  have  not  seen  since  you 
went  before.  We  meditate  a  stroll  next  Wednesday, 
fast-day.  He  happened  to  light  upon  Mr.  Holcroft,  wife, 
and  daughter,  their  first  visit  at  our  house.  Your  brother 
called  last  night.  We  keep  up  our  intimacy.  He  is 
going  to  begin  a  large  Madonna  and  child  from  Mrs.  H. 
and  baby.  I  fear  he  goes  astray  after  ignes  fatui.  He 
is  a  clever  man.  By  the  by,  I  saw  a  miniature  of  his  as 
far  excelling  any  in  his  show  cupboard  (that  of  your  sister 
not  excepted)  as  that  show  cupboard  excels  the  show 
things  you  see  in  windows — an  old  woman  (damn  her 
name  !),  but  most  superlative ;  he  has  it  to  clean — I'll  ask 
him  the  name — but  the  best  miniature  I  ever  saw.  But 
for  oil  pictures ! — what  has  he  to  do  with  Madonnas  1 
If  the  Virgin  Mary  were  alive  and  visitable,  he  would  not 
hazard  himself  in  a  Covent  Garden  pit-door  crowd  to  see 
her.  It  isn't  his  style  of  beauty,  is  it  ?  But  he  will  go 
on  painting  things  he  ought  not  to  paint,  and  not  painting 
things  he  ought  to  paint.  Manning  is  not  gone  to  China, 
but  talks  of  going  this  Spring.  God  forbid  !  Coleridge 
not  heard  of.  I  am  going  to  leave  off  smoke.  In  the 
meantime  I  am  so  smoky  with  last  night's  ten  pipes,  that 
I  must  leave  off.  Mary  begs  her  kind  remembrances. 
Pray  write  to  us.  This  is  no  letter ;  but  I  supposed  you 
grew  anxious  about  Johnson. 

N.B. — Have  taken  a  room  at  three  shillings  a  week, 
to  be  in  between  five  and  eight  at  night,  to  avoid  my 
nocturnal,  alias  knock-eternal,  visitors.  The  first -fruits 
of  my  retirement  has  been  a  farce,  which  goes  to  manager 
to-morrow.  Wish  my  ticket  luck.  God  bless  you ;  and 
do  write. — Yours,  fumosissimus,  0.  LAMB. 


226  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


To  MR.  RICKMAN. 

LETTER  CXVIII.]  March  1806. 

Dear  Rickman — I  send  you  some  papers  about  a  salt- 
water soap,  for  which  the  inventor  is  desirous  of  getting 
a  parliamentary  reward,  like  Dr.  Jenner.  Whether  such  a 
project  be  feasible,  I  mainly  doubt,  taking  for  granted  the 
equal  utility.  I  should  suppose  the  usual  way  of  paying 
such  projectors  is  by  patent  and  contracts.  The  patent, 
you  see,  he  has  got.  A  contract  he  is  about  with  the 
Navy  Board.  Meantime,  the  projector  is  hungry.  Will 
you  answer  me  two  questions,  and  retiirn  them  with  the 
papers  as  soon  as  you  can  1  Imprimis,  is  there  any  chance 
of  success  in  application  to  Parliament  for  a  reward? 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  invention  1  You  see  its  benefits 
and  saving  to  the  nation  (always  the  first  motive  with  a 
true  projector)  are  feelingly  set  forth  :  the  last  paragraph 
but  one  of  the  estimate,  in  enumerating  the  shifts  poor 
seamen  are  put  to,  even  approaches  to  the  pathetic.  But, 
agreeing  to  all  he  says,  is  there  the  remotest  chance  of 
Parliament  giving  the  projector  anything?  And  when 
should  application  be  made,  now,  or  after  a  report  (if  he 
can  get  it)  from  the  Navy  Board?  Secondly,  let  the 
infeasibility  be  as  great  as  you  will,  you  will  oblige  me 
by  telling  me  the  way  of  introducing  such  an  application 
in  Parliament,  without  buying  over  a  majority  of  mem- 
bers, which  is  totally  out  of  projector's  power.  I  vouch 
nothing  for  the  soap  myself;  for  I  always  wash  in  fresh 
water,  and  find  it  answer  tolerably  well  for  all  purposes 
of  cleanliness;  nor  do  I  know  the  projector;  but  a 
relation  of  mine  has  put  me  on  writing  to  you,  for  whose 
parliamentary  knowledge  he  has  great  veneration. 

P.S. — The  Capt.  and  Mrs.  Burney  and  Phillips  take 
their  chance  at  cribbage  here  on  Wednesday.  Will  you 
and  Mrs.  R.  join  the  party?  Mary  desires  her  compliments 
to  Mrs.  R.,  and  joins  in  the  invitation. 

Yours  truly.  0.  LAMB. 


TO  HAZL1TT.  227 


To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

LETTEE  CXIX.]  March  15,  1806. 

Dear  H. — I  am  a  little  surprised  at  no  letter  from 
you.  This  day  week,  to  wit,  Saturday,  the  8th  of  March, 
1806,  I  booked  off  by  the  Wem  coach,  Bull  and  Mouth 
Inn,  directed  to  you,  at  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hazlitt's,  Wem, 
Shropshire,  a  parcel  containing,  besides  a  book,  etc.,  a 
rare  print,  which  I  take  to  be  a  Titian ;  begging  the  said 
W.  H.  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  thereof;  which  he  not 
having  done,  I  conclude  the  said  parcel  to  be  lying  at  the 
inn,  and  may  be  lost ;  for  which  reason,  lest  you  may  be 
a  Wales-hunting  at  this  instant,  I  have  authorised  any  of 
your  family,  whosoever  first  gets  this,  to  open  it,  that  so 
precious  a  parcel  may  not  moulder  away  for  want  of 
looking  after. 

What  do  you  in  Shropshire  when  so  many  fine  pictures 
are  a-going  a-going  every  day  in  London?  Monday  I 
visit  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne's,  in  Berkeley  Square. 
Catalogue  2s.  6d.  Leonardos  in  plenty.  Some  other 
day  this  week  I  go  to  see  Sir  Wm.  Young's,  in  Stratford 
Place.  Hulse's,  of  Blackheath,  are  also  to  be  sold  this 
*nonth ;  and  in  May,  the  first  private  collection  in  Europe, 
Welbore  Ellis  Agar's.  And  there  are  you,  perverting 
Nature  in  lying  landscapes,  filched  from  old  rusty  Titians, 
such  as  I  can  scrape  up  here  to  send  you,  with  an  addita- 
ment  from  Shropshire  Nature  thrown  in  to  make  the 
whole  look  unnatural.  I  am  afraid  of  your  mouth 
watering  when  I  tell  you  that  Manning  and  I  got  into 
Angerstein's  on  Wednesday.  Mon  Dieu  t  Such  Claudes  ! 
Four  Claudes  bought  for  more  than  £10,000;  (those 
who  talk  of  Wilson  being  equal  to  Claude  are  either 
mainly  ignorant  or  stupid;)  one  of  these  was  perfectly 
miraculous.  What  colours  short  of  bond  fide  sunbeams 
it  could  be  painted  in,  I  am  not  earthly  colourman  enough 
to  say ;  but  I  did  not  think  it  had  been  in  the  possibility 


228  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

of  things.  Then,  a  music  piece  by  Titian,  a  thousand 
pound  picture,  five  figures  standing  behind  a  piano,  the 
sixth  playing — none  of  the  heads,  as  M.  observed,  indi- 
cating great  men,  or  affecting  it,  but  so  sweetly  disposed 
— all  leaning  separate  ways,  but  so  easy — like  a  flock  of 
some  divine  shepherd ;  the  colouring,  like  the  economy  of 
the  picture,  so  sweet  and  harmonious — as  good  as  Shaks- 
peare's  Twelfth  Night, — almost,  that  is.  It  will  give  you 
a  love  of  order,  and  cure  you  of  restless,  fidgety  passions 
for  a  week  after — more  musical  than  the  music  which  it 
would,  but  cannot,  yet  in  a  manner  does,  show.  I  have 
no  room  for  the  rest.  Let  me  say,  Angerstein  sits  in  a 
room — his  study  (only  that  and  the  library  are  shown), 
when  he  writes  a  common  letter,  as  I  am  doing,  sur- 
rounded with  twenty  pictures  worth  £60,000.  What  a 
luxury  !  Apicius  and  Heliogabalus,  hide  your  diminished 
heads ! 

Yours,  my  dear  painter,  0.  LAMB. 

Mr.  Wm.  Hazlitt, 

Wem,  Shropshire. 
In  his  absence,  to  be  opened  immediately. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  CXX.]  May  10,  1808. 

My  dear  Manning — I  didn't  know  what  your  going 
was  till  I  shook  a  last  fist  with  you,  and  then  'twas  just 
like  having  shaken  hands  v/ith  a  wretch  on  the  fatal 
scaffold,  for  when  you  are  down  the  ladder  you  can  never 
stretch  out  to  him  again.  Mary  says  you  are  dead,  and 
there's  nothing  to  do  but  to  leave  it  to  time  to  do  for  us 
in  the  end  what  it  always  does  for  those  who  mourn  for 
people  in  such  a  case.  But  she'll  see  by  yc'ir  letter  you 
are  not  quite  dead.  A  little  kicking  and  agony,  and 

then .     Martin  Burney  took  me  out  a  walking  that 

evening,  and  we  talked  of  Manning;  and  then  I  came 
home  and  smoked  for  you ;  and  at  twelve  o'clock  caine 


TO  MANNING.  229 

home  Mary  and  Monkey  Louisa  from  the  play,  and  there 
was  more  talk  and  more  smoking,  and  they  all  seemed 
first-rate  characters,  because  they  knew  a  certain  person. 
But  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  'em  1  By  the  time 
you'll  have  made  your  escape  from  the  Kalmuks,  you'll 
have  stayed  so  long  I  shall  never  be  able  to  bring  to  your 
mind  who  Mary  was,  who  will  have  died  about  a  year 
before,  nor  who  the  Holcrofts  were !  Me  perhaps  you 
will  mistake  for  Phillips,  or  confound  me  with  Mr. 
Dawe,  because  you  saw  us  together.  Mary  (whom  you 
seem  to  remember  yet)  is  not  quite  easy  that  she  had  not 
a  formal  parting  from  you.  I  wish  it  had  so  happened. 
But  you  must  bring  her  a  token,  a  shawl  or  something, 
and  remember  a  sprightly  little  mandarin  for  our  mantel- 
piece, as  a  companion  to  the  child  I  am  going  to  purchase 
at  the  museum.  She  says  you  saw  her  writings  about 
the  other  day,  and  she  wishes  you  should  know  what 
they  are.  She  is  doing  for  Godwin's  bookseller  twenty 
of  Shakspeare's  plays,  to  be  made  into  children's  tales. 
Six  are  already  done  by  her;  to  wit,  the  Tempest,  the 
Winters  Tale,  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing,  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  and  Cym- 
beline.  The  Merchant  of  Venice  is  in  forwardness.  I 
have  done  Othello  and  Macbeth,  and  mean  to  do  all  the 
tragedies.  I  think  it  will  be  popular  among  the  little 
people,  besides  money.  It  is  to  bring  in  sixty  guineas. 
Mary  has  done  them  capitally,  I  think  you'd  think. 
These  are  the  humble  amusements  we  propose,  while  you 
are  gone  to  plant  the  cross  of  Christ  among  barbarous 
pagan  anthropophagi.  Quam  homo  homini  praestat !  but 
then,  perhaps,  you'll  get  murdered,  and  we  shall  die  in 
our  beds  with  a  fair  literary  reputation.  Be  sure,  if  you 
see  any  of  those  people  whose  heads  do  grow  beneath 
their  shoulders,  that  you  make  a  draught  of  them.  It 
will  be  very  curious.  Oh  Manning,  I  am  serious  to 
sinking  almost,  when  I  think  that  all  those  evenings 
which  you  have  made  so  pleasant,  are  gone  perhaps  for 
ever.  Four  years,  you  talk  of,  may  be  ten,  and  you  may 


230  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

come  back  and  find  such  alterations !  Some  circum- 
stances may  grow  up  to  you  or  to  me,  that  may  be  a  bar 
to  the  return  of  any  such  intimacy.  I  daresay  all  this  is 
hum  !  and  that  all  will  come  back ;  but  indeed  we  die 
many  deaths  before  we  die,  and  I  am  almost  sick  when 
I  think  that  such  a  hold  as  I  had  of  you  is  gone.  I  have 
friends,  but  some  of  'em  are  changed.  Marriage,  or  some 
circumstance,  rises  up  to  make  them  not  the  same.  But 
I  felt  sure  of  you.  And  that  last  token  you  gave  me  of 
expressing  a  wish  to  have  my  name  joined  with  yours, 
you  know  not  how  it  affected  me  :  like  a  legacy. 

God  bless  you  in  every  way  you  can  form  a  wish. 
May  He  give  you  health,'  and  safety,  and  the  accomplish- 
ment of  all  your  objects,  and  return  you  again  to  us,  to 
gladden  some  fireside  or  other  (I  suppose  we  shall  be 
moved  from  the  Temple).  I  will  nurse  the  remembrance 
of  your  steadiness  and  quiet,  which  used  to  infuse  some- 
thing like  itself  into  our  nervous  minds.  Mary  called 
you  our  ventilator.  Farewell,  and  take  her  best  wishes 
and  mine. 

Good-bye  C.  L. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTER  CXXI.]  June  1806. 

Dear  Wordsworth — We  are  pleased,  you  may  be  sure, 

with  the  good  news  of  Mrs.  W .     Hope  all  is  well 

over  by  this  time.  "  A  fine  boy.  Have  you  any  more  1 
— one  more  and  a  girl — poor  copies  of  me  !"  vide  Mr. 
ff.,  a  farce  which  the  proprietors  have  done  me  the 

honour ;  but  I  will  set  down  Mr.  Wrough ton's  own 

words.  N.B. — The  ensuing  letter  was  sent  in  answer  to 
one  which  I  wrote,  begging  to  know  if  my  piece  had  any 
chance,  as  I  might  make  alterations,  etc.  I  writing  on 
Monday,  there  coims  this  letter  on  the  Wednesday. 
Attend ! 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  231 

[Copy  of  a  Letter  from  Mr.  R.  Wroughton.] 

"  Sir — Your  piece  of  Mr.  H.,  I  am  desired  to  say,  is 
accepted  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  by  the  proprietors,  and, 
if  agreeable  to  you,  will  be  brought  forwards  when  the 
proper  opportunity  serves.  The  piece  shall  be  sent  to 
you,  for  your  alterations,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  as 
the  same  is  not  in  my  hands,  but  with  the  proprietors. 
"  I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

"  RICHARD  WEOUGHTON. 
[Dated] 
"  66,  Gower  Street, 

"Wednesday,  June  11,  1806." 

On  the  following  Sunday  Mr.  Tobin  comes.  The 
scent  of  a  manager's  letter  brought  him.  He  would  have 
gone  further  any  day  on  such  a  business.  I  read  the 
letter  to  him.  He  deems  it  authentic  and  peremptory. 
Our  conversation  naturally  fell  upon  pieces,  different  sorts 
of  pieces ;  what  is  the  best  way  of  offering  a  piece,  how 
far  the  caprice  of  managers  is  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
a  piece,  how  to  judge  of  the  merits  of  a  piece,  how  long  a 
piece  may  remain  in  the  hands  of  the  managers  before  it 
is  acted;  and  my  piece,  and  your  piece,  and  my  poor 
brother's  piece — my  poor  brother  was  all  his  life  endeavour- 
ing to  get  a  piece  accepted.  I  am  not  sure  that,  when 
my  poor  brother  bequeathed  the  care  of  his  pieces  to  Mr. 
Tobin,  he  did  not  therein  convey  a  legacy  which  in  some 
measure  mollified  the  otherwise  first  stupefactions  of 
grief.  It  cannot  be  expected  that  the  present  Earl  Nelson 
passes  all  his  time  in  watering  the  laurels  of  the  admiral 
with  Right-Reverend  Tears.  Certainly  he  steals  a  fine 
day  now  and  then  to  plot  how  to  lay  out  the  grounds 
and  mansion  at  Burnham  most  suitable  to  the  late  Earl's 
taste,  if  he  had  lived,  and  how  to  spend  the  hundred 
thousand  pounds  which  Parliament  has  given  him  in 
erecting  some  little  neat  monument  to  his  memory. 

I  wrote  that  in  mere  wantonness  of  triumph.     Have 


232  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

nothing  more  to  say  about  it.  The  managers,  I  thank 
my  stars,  have  decided  its  merits  for  ever.  They  are 
the  best  judges  of  pieces,  and  it  would  be  insensible 
in  me  to  affect  a  false  modesty  after  the  very  flattering 
letter  which  I  have  received. 


ADMIT 

TO 

BOXES. 
MR.  H. 

Ninth  Night. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


I  think  this  will  be  as  good  a  pattern  for  orders  as  I 
can  think  on.  A  little  thin  flowery  border,  round,  neat, 
not  gaudy,  and  the  Drury  Lane  Apollo,  with  the  harp  at 
the  top.  Or  shall  I  have  no  Apollo?-- simply  nothing1? 
Or  perhaps  the  comic  muse  ? 

The  same  form,  only  I  think  without  the  Apollo,  will 
serve  for  the  pit  and  galleries.  I  think  it  will  be  best  to 
write  my  name  at  full  length  ;  but  then  if  I  give  away  s. 
a  great  many,  that  will  be  tedious.  Perhaps  Ch.  Lamb 
will  do. 

BOXES,  now  I  think  on  it,  I'll  have  in  capitals.  The 
rest,  in  a  neat  Italian  hand.  Or  better,  perhaps  Bores, 
in  old  English  characters,  like  "Madoc"  or  "Thalaba?" 

A-propos  of  Spenser  (you  will  find  him  mentioned  a 
page  or  two  before,  near  enough  for  an  a-propos),  I  was 
discoursing  on  poetry  (as  one's  apt  to  deceive  one's  self, 
and  when  a  person  is  willing  to  talk  of  what  one  likes, 
to  believe  that  he  also  likes  the  same,  as  lovers  do)  with 
a  young  gentleman  of  my  office,  who  is  deep  read  in 
Anacreon  Moore,  Lord  Strangford,  and  the  principal 
modern  poets,  and  I  happened  to  mention  Epithalamiums, 
and  that  I  could  show  him  a  very  fine  one  of  Spenser's. 
At  the  mention  of  this,  my  gentleman,  who  is  a  very 
fine  gentleman,  and  is  brother  to  the  Miss  Evans  whom 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  233 

Coleridge  so  narrowly  escaped  marrying,  pricked  up  his 
ears  and  expressed  great  pleasure,  and  begged  that  I 
would  give  him  leave  to  copy  it :  he  did  not  care  how 
long  it  was  (for  I  objected  the  length),  he  should  be  very 
happy  to  see  anything  by  him.  Then  pausing,  and  look- 
ing sad,  he  ejaculated  "PooR  SPENCER!"  I  begged  to 
know  the  reason  of  his  ejaculation,  thinking  that  time 
had  by  this  time  softened  down  any  calamities  which  the 
bard  might  have  endured.  "  Why,  poor  fellow,"  said  he, 
"he  has  lost  his  wife!"  "Lost  his  wife!"  said  I, 
"whom  are  you  talking  of?"  "Why,  Spencer,"  said 
he;  "I've  read  the  Monody  he  wrote  on  the  occasion, 
and  a  very  pretty  thing  it  is."  This  led  to  an  explanation 
(it  could  be  delayed  no  longer)  that  the  sound  Spenser, 
which,  when  poetry  is  talked  of,  generally  excites  an 
image  of  an  old  bard  in  a  ruff,  and  sometimes  with  it  dim 
notions  of  Sir  P.  Sydney,  and  perhaps  Lord  Burleigh, 
had  raised  in  my  gentleman  a  quite  contrary  image  of 
vhe  Honourable  William  Spencer,  who  has  translated 
some  things  from  the  German  very  prettily,  which  are 
published  with  Lady  DL  Beauclerk's  designs.  Nothing 
like  defining  of  terms  when  we  talk  What  blunders 
might  I  have  fallen  into  of  quite  inapplicable  criticism, 
but  for  this  timely  explanation  ! 

N.B. — At  the  beginning  of  Edm.  Spenser  (to  prevent 
mistakes),  I  have  copied  from  my  own  copy,  and  primarily 
from  a  book  of  Chalmers's  on  Shakspeare,  a  sonnet  of 
Spenser's  never  printed  among  his  poems.  It  is  curious, 
as  being  manly,  and  rather  Miltonic,  and  as  a  sonnet  of 
Spenser's  with  nothing  in  it  about  love  or  knighthood. 
I  have  no  room  for  remembrances ;  but  I  hope  our  doing 
your  commission  will  prove  we  do  not  quite  forget  you. 

0.  L. 


234  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

LETTER  CXXIL]  December  5,  1806. 

Manning,  your  letter  dated  Hottentots,  August  (th«. 
what-was-it?)  came  to  hand.  I  can  scarce  hope  that 
mine  will  have  the  same  luck.  China  !  Canton  !  Bless 
us — how  it  strains  the  imagination  and  makes  it  ache ! 
I  write  under  another  uncertainty,  whether  it  can  go  to- 
morrow by  a  ship  which  I  have  just  learned  is  going  off 
direct  to  your  part  of  the  world,  or  whether  the  despatches 
may  not  be  sealed  up  and  this  have  to  wait,  for  if  it  is 
detained  here,  it  will  grow  staler  in  a  fortnight  than  in  a 
five  months'  voyage  coming  to  you.  It  will  be  a  point 
of  conscience  to  send  you  none  but  bran-new  news  (the 
latest  edition),  which,  like  oranges,  will  but  grow  the 
better  for  a  sea  voyage.  Oh  that  you  should  be  so  many 
hemispheres  off ! — if  I  speak  incorrectly  you  can  correct 
me — why  the  simplest  death  or  marriage  that  takes  place 
here  must  be  important  to  you  as  news  in  the  old  Bastile. 
There's  your  friend  Tuthill  has  got  away  from  France ; 
you  remember  France  1  and  Tuthill  1 — ten  to  one  but  he 
writes  by  this  post,  if  he  don't  get  my  note  in  time, 
apprising  him  of  the  vessel's  sailing.  Know  then  that  he 
has  found  means  to  obtain  leave  from  Buonaparte  (with- 
out making  use  of  any  incredible  romantic  pretences  as 
some  have  done,  who  never  meant  to  fulfil  them)  to  come 
home,  and  I  have  seen  him  here  and  at  Hoi  croft's.  Arn't 
you  glad  about  Tuthill  1  Now  then  be  sorry  for  Holcroft, 
whose  new  play,  called  the  Vindictive  Man,  was  damned 
about  a  fortnight  since.  It  died  in  part  of  its  own  weak- 
ness, and  in  part  for  being  choked  up  with  bad  actors. 
The  two  principal  parts  were  destined  to  Mrs.  Jordan 
and  Mr.  Bannister,  but  Mrs.  J.  has  not  come  to  terms 
with  the  managers ;  they  have  had  some  squabble ;  and 
Bannister  shot  some  of  his  fingers  off  by  the  going  off  of 
a  gun.  So  Miss  Duncan  had  her  part,  and  Mr.  de  Camp 


TO  MANNING.  235 

took  his.  His  part,  the  principal  comic  hope  of  the  play, 
was  most  unluckily  Goldfinch,  taken  out  of  the  Road  to 
Ruin,  not  only  the  same  character,  but  the  identical 
Goldfinch — the  same  as  Falstaff  is  in  two  plays  of  Shak- 
speare's.  As  the  devil  of  ill-luck  would  have  it,  half  the 
audience  did  not  know  that  Holcroft  had  written  it,  but 
were  displeased  at  his  stealing  from  the  Road  to  Ruin  ; 
and  those  who  might  have  borne  a  gentlemanly  coxcomb 
with  his  "  That's  your  sort,"  "  Go  it " — such  as  Lewis  is 
— did  not  relish  the  intolerable  vulgarity  and  inanity 
of  the  idea  stript  of  his  manner.  De  Camp  was  hooted, 
more  than  hist,  hooted  and  bellowed  oft'  the  stage  before 
the  second  act  was  finished  ;  so  that  the  remainder  of  his 
part  was  forced  to  be,  with  some  violence  to  the  play, 
omitted.  In  addition  to  this,  a  whore  was  another 
principal  character — a  most  unfortunate  choice  in  this 
moral  day.  The  audience  were  as  scandalised  as  if  you 
were  to  introduce  such  a  personage  to  their  private  tea- 
tables.  Besides,  her  action  in  the  play  was  gross — 
wheedling  an  old  man  into  marriage.  But  the  mortal 
blunder  of  the  play  was  that  which,  oddly  enough,  Hol- 
croft took  pride  in,  and  exultingly  told  me  of  the  night 
before  it  came  out,  that  there  were  no  less  than  eleven 
principal  characters  in  it,  and  I  believe  he  meant  of  the 
men  only,  for  the  play-bill  expressed  as  much,  not  reckon- 
ing one  woman,  and  one  whore ;  and  true  it  was,  for 
Mr.  Powell,  Mr.  Raymond,  Mr.  Bartlett,  Mr.  H.  Siddons, 
Mr.  Barrymore,- etc.  etc.,  to  the  number  of  eleven,  had 
all  parts  equally  prominent,  and  there  was  as  much  of 
them  in  quantity  and  rank  as  of  the  hero  and  heroine — 
and  most  of  them  gentlemen  who  seldom  appear  but  as 
the  hero's  friend  in  a  farce,  for  a  minute  or  two;  and 
here  they  all  had  their  ten-minute  speeches,  and  one  of 
them  gave  the  audience  a  serious  account  of  how  he  was 
now  a  lawyer  but  had  been  a  poet,  and  then  a  long 
enumeration  of  the  inconveniences  of  authorship,  rascally 
booksellers,  reviewers,  etc. ;  which  first  set  the  audience 
a-gaping ;  but  I  have  said  enough.  You  will  be  so  sorry. 


236  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

that  you  will  not  think  the  best  of  me  for  my  detail ; 
but  news  is  news  at  Canton.  Poor  Holcroft  I  fear  will 
feel  the  disappointment  very  seriously  in  a  pecuniary 
light.  From  what  I  can  learn  he  has  saved  nothing. 
You  and  I  were  hoping  one  day  that  he  had,  but  1  fear 
he  has  nothing  but  his  pictures  and  books,  and  a  no  very 
flourishing  business,  and  to  be  obliged  to  part  with  his 
long-necked  Guido  that  hangs  opposite  as  you  enter,  and 
the  game-piece  that  hangs  in  the  back  drawing-room,  and 
all  those  Vandykes,  etc. !  God  should  temper  the  wind 
to  the  shorn  connoisseur.  I  hope  I  need  not  say  to  you, 
that  I  feel  for  the  weather-beaten  author,  and  for  all  his 
household.  I  assure  you  his  fate  has  soured  a  good  deal 
the  pleasure  I  should  have  otherwise  taken  in  my  own 
little  farce  being  accepted,  and  I  hope  about  to  be  acted  : 
it  is  in  rehearsal  actually,  and  I  expect  it  to  come  out 
next  week.  It  is  kept  a  sort  of  secret,  and  the  rehearsals 
have  gone  on  privately,  lest  by  many  folks  knowing  it, 
the  story  should  come  out,  which  would  infallibly  damn 
it.  You  remember  I  had  sent  it  before  you  went. 
Wroughton  read  it,  and  was  much  pleased  with  it.  I 
speedily  got  an  answer.  I  took  it  to  make  alterations, 
and  lazily  kept  it  some  months,  then  took  courage  and 
furbished  it  up  in  a  day  or  two  and  took  it.  In  less 
than  a  fortnight  I  heard  the  principal  part  was  given  to 
Elliston,  who  liked  it  and  only  wanted  a  prologue,  which 
I  have  since  done  and  sent,  and  I  had  a  note  the  day 
before  yesterday  from  the  manager,  Wroughton  (bless  his 
fat  face !  he  is  not  a  bad  actor  in  some  things),  to  say 
that  I  should  be  summoned  to  the  rehearsal  after  the 
next,  which  next  was  to  be  yesterday.  I  had  no  idea  it 
was  so  forward.  I  have  had  no  trouble,  attended  no 
reading  or  rehearsal,  made  no  interest.  What  a  contrast 
to  the  usual  parade  of  authors !  But  it  is  peculiar  to 
modesty  to  do  all  things  without  noise  or  pomp.  I  have 
some  suspicion  it  will  appear  in  public  on  Wednesday 
next,  for  Wroughton  says  in  his  note,  it  is  so  forward 
that  if  wanted  it  may  come  out  next  week,  and  a  new 


TO  MANNING.  237 

melodrame  is  announced  for  every  day  till  then ;  and  "  a 
new  farce  is  in  rehearsal,"  is  put  up  in  the  bills.  Now 
you'd  like  to  know  the  subject.  The  title  is  Mr.  H.,  no 
more.  How  simple,  how  taking !  A  great  H.  sprawling 
over  the  play-bill  and  attracting  eyes  at  every  corner. 
The  story  is  a  coxcomb  appearing  at  Bath,  vastly  rich — . 
all  the  ladies  dying  for  him — all  bursting  to  know  who 
he  is ;  but  he  goes  by  no  other  name  than  Mr.  H. — a 
curiosity  like  that  of  the  dames  of  Strasburg  about  the 
man  with  the  great  nose.  But  I  won't  tell  you  any  more 
about  it.  Yes,  I  will ;  but  I  can't  give  you  an  idea  how 
I  have  done  it.  Ill  just  tell  you  that  after  much 
vehement  admiration,  when  his  true  name  comes  out, 
"Hogsflesh,"  all  the  women  shun  him,  avoid  him,  and 
not  one  can  be  found  to  change  their  name  for  him. 
That's  the  idea.  How  flat  it  is  here — but  how  whimsical 
in  the  farce !  And  only  think  how  hard  upon  me  it  is 
that  the  ship  is  despatched  to-morrow,  and  my  triumph 
cannot  be  ascertained  till  the  Wednesday  after ;  but  all 
China  will  ring  of  it  by  and  by.  N.B.  (But  this  is  a 
secret).  The  Professor  has  got  a  tragedy  coming  out, 
with  the  young  Roscius  in  it,  in  January  next,  as  we  say 
— January  last  it  will  be  with  you — and  though  it  is  a 
profound  secret  now,  as  all  his  affairs  are,  it  cannot  be 
much  of  one  by  the  time  you  read  this.  However,  don't 
let  it  go  any  further.  I  understand  there  are  dramatic 
exhibitions  in  China.  One  would  not  like  to  be  fore- 
stalled. Do  you  find  in  all  this  stuflf  I  have  written  any- 
thing like  those  feelings  which  one  should  send  my  old 
adventuring  friend,  that  is  gone  to  wander  among  Tartars 
and  may  never  come  again t  I  don't;  but  your  going 
away,  and  all  about  you,  is  a  threadbare  topic.  I  have 
worn  it  out  with  thinking :  it  has  come  to  me  when  I 
have  been  dull  with  anything,  till  my  sadness  has  seemed 
more  to  have  come  from  it  than  to  have  introduced  it. 
I  want  you,  you  don't  know  how  much ;  but  if  I  had  you 
here  in  my  European  garret,  we  should  but  talk  over 
such  stuff  as  I  have  written — so.  Those  Tales  from 


238  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Shakspeare  are  near  coming  out,  and  Mary  has  begun  a 
new  work.  Mr.  Dawe  is  turned  author ;  he  has  been 
in  such  a  way  lately — Dawe,  the  painter,  I  mean — he 
sits  and  stands  about  at  Holcroft's  and  says  nothing; 
then  sighs  and  leans  his  head  on  his  hand.  I  took  him 
to  be  in  love ;  but  it  seems  he  was  only  meditating  a 
work, — "  The  Life  of  Morland."  The  young  man  is  not 
used  to  composition.  Rickman  and  Captain  Burney  are 
well ;  they  assemble  at  my  house  pretty  regularly  of  a 
Wednesday — a  new  institution.  Like  other  great  men  I 
have  a  public  day,  cribbage  and  pipes,  with  Phillips  and 
noisy  Martin. 

Good  God !  what  a  bit  only  I've  got  left !  How 
shall  I  squeeze  all  I  know  into  this  morsel !  Coleridge 
is  come  home,  and  is  going  to  turn  lecturer  on  Taste  at 
the  Royal  Institution.  I  shall  get  £200  from  the  theatre 
if  Mr.  If.  has  a  good  run,  and  I  hope  £100  for  the  copy 
right.  Nothing  if  it  fails  ;  and  there  never  was  a  more 
ticklish  thing.  The  whole  depends  on  the  manner  in 
which  the  name  is  brought  out,  which  I  value  myself  on, 
as  a  chef-d'oeuvre.  How  the  paper  grows  less  and  less ! 
In  less  than  two  minutes  I  shall  cease  to  talk  to  you,  and 
you  may  rave  to  the  great  wall  of  China.  N.B.  Is  there 
such  a  walll  Is  it  as  big  as  old  London  Wall,  by 
Bedlam  ?  Have  you  met  with  a  friend  of  mine,  named 
Ball,  at  Canton !  If  you  are  acquainted,  remember  me 
kindly  to  him.  May  be  you'll  think  I  have  not  said 
enough  of  Tuthill  and  the  Holcrofts.  Tuthill  is  a  noble 
fellow,  as  far  as  I  can  judge.  The  H.'s  bear  their  dis- 
appointment pretty  well,  but  indeed  they  are  sadly  morti- 
fied. Mrs.  H.  is  cast  down.  It  was  well,  if  it  were  but 
on  this  account,  that  T.  is  come  home.  N.B.  If  my  little 
thing  don't  succeed  I  shall  easily  survive,  having,  as  it 
were,  compared  to  H.'s  venture,  but  a  sixteenth  in  the 
lottery.  Mary  and  I  are  to  sit  next  the  orchestra  in  the 
pit,  next  the  tweedledees.  She  remembers  you.  You 
are  more  to  us  than  five  hundred  farces,  clappings,  etc. 

Come  back  one  day.  C.  LAMB. 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  239 


To  Miss  STODDART. 

LETTER  CXXIIL]  December  11  [1806]. 

Don't  mind  this  being  a  queer  letter.  I  am  in  haste, 
and  taken  up  by  visitors,  condolers,  etc. 

God  bless  you. 

Dear  Sarah — Mary  is  a  little  cut  at  the  ill  success  of 
Mr.  //.,  which  came  out  last  night  and  failed.  I  know 
you'll  be  sorry,  but  never  mind.  We  are  determined  not 
to  be  cast  down.  I  am  going  to  leave  off  tobacco,  and 
then  we  must  thrive.  A  smoking  man  must  write  smoky 
farces. 

Mary  is  pretty  well,  but  I  persuaded  her  to  let  me 
write.  We  did  not  apprise  you  of  the  coming  out  of  Mr. 
H.  for  fear  of  ill  luck.  You  were  much  better  out  of  the 
house.  If  it  had  taken,  your  partaking  of  our  good  luck 
would  have  been  one  of  our  greatest  joys.  As  it  is,  we 
shall  expect  you  at  the  time  you  mentioned.  But  when- 
ever you  come  you  shall  be  most  welcome. 

God  bless  you,  dear  Sarah, 

Yours  most  truly,         0.  L. 

Mary  is  by  no  means  unwell,  but  I  made  her  let  me 
write. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTER  CX*XIV.]  December  11,  1806. 

Mary's  love  to  all  of  you — I  wouldn't  let  her  write. 

Dear  Wordsworth — Mr.  H.  came  out  last  night,  and 
failed.  I  had  many  fears  ;  the  subject  was  not  substantial 
enough.  John  Bull  must  have  solider  fare  than  a  letter. 
We  are  pretty  stout  about  it ;  have  had  plenty  of  con- 
doling friends;  but,  after  all,  we  had  rather  it  should 
have  succeeded.  You  will  see  the  prologue  in  most  of 
the  morning  papers.  It  was  received  with  such  shouts 


240  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

as  I  never  witnessed  to  a  prologue.  It  was  attempted  to 
be  encored.  How  hard  ! — a  thing  I  did  merely  as  a  task, 
because  it  was  wanted,  and  set  no  great  store  by ;  and 
Mr.  H.  !  !  The  number  of  friends  we  had  in  the  house 
— my  brother  and  I  being  in  public  offices,  etc. — was 
astonishing,  but  they  yielded  at  length  to  a  few  hisses. 

A  hundred  hisses  !  (Damn  the  word,  I  write  it  like 
kisses — how  different !) — a  hundred  hisses  outweigh  a 
thousand  claps.  The  former  come  more  directly  from 
the  heart.  Well,  'tis  withdrawn,  and  there  is  an  end. 

Better  luck  to  us.  C.  LAMB. 

[Turn  over.] 

P.S. — Pray,  when  any  of  you  write  to  the  Clarksons, 
give  our  kind  loves,  and  say  we  shall  not  be  able  to  come 
and  see  them  at  Christmas,  as  I  shall  have  but  a  day  or 
two,  and  tell  them  we  bear  our  mortification  pretty  well. 


To  WILLIAM  GODWIN. 
LETTER  CXXV].  1806. 

I  repent.  Can  that  God  whom  thy  votaries  say  that 
thou  hast  demolished  expect  more?  I  did  indite  a 
splenetic  letter,  but  did  the  black  Hypocondria  never 
gripe  thy  heart,  till  thou  hast  taken  a  friend  for  an 
enemy?  The  foul  fiend  Flibbertigibbet  leads  me  over  four- 
inched  bridges,  to  course  my  own  shadow  for.  a  traitor. 
There  are  certain  positions  of  the  moon,  under  which  I 
counsel  thee  not  to  take  anything  written  from  this  domi- 
cile as  serious. 

/  rank  thee  with  Alves,  Latine,  Helvetius,  or  any  of 
his  accursed  crew  1  Thou  art  my  friend,  and  henceforth 
my  philosopher.  Thou  shalt  teach  Distinction  to  the 
junior  branches  of  my  household  and  Deception  to  the 
gray-haired  Janitress  at  my  door. 

What !  Are  these  atonements  ?  Can  Arcadias  be 
brought  upon  knees,  creeping  and  crouching  ? 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  241 

Come,  as  Macbeth's  drunken  porter  says,  knock,  knock, 
knock,  knock,  knock,  knock,  knock — seven  times  a  day 
shalt  thou  batter  at  my  peace,  and  if  I  shut  aught  against 
thee,  save  the  Temple  of  Janus,  may  Briareus,  with  his 
hundred  hands,  in  each  a  brass  knocker,  lead  me  such  a 
life.  C.  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWOETH. 

LETTER  CXXVL]  Thursday,  January  29,  1807. 

Dear  Wordsworth — We  have  book'd  off  from  Swan 
and  Two  Necks,  Lad  Lane,  this  day  (per  Coach)  the 
Tales  from  Shakspeare.  You  will  forgive  the  plates, 
when  I  tell  you  they  were  left  to  the  direction  of  Godwin, 
who  left  the  choice  of  subjects  to  the  bad  baby,  who  from 
mischief  (I  suppose)  has  chosen  one  from  damn'd  beastly 
vulgarity  (vide  Merck.  Venice)  where  no  atom  of  authority 
was  in  the  tale  to  justify  it ;  to  another  has  given  a 
name  which  exists  not  in  the  tale,  Nic  Bottom,  and  which 
she  thought  would  be  funny,  though  in  this  I  suspect  his 
hand,  for  I  guess  her  reading  does  not  reach  far  enough 
to  know  Bottom's  Christian  name ;  and  one  of  Hamlet 
and  grave-digging,  a  scene  which  is  not  hinted  at  in  the 
story,  and  you  might  as  well  have  put  King  Canute  the 
Great  reproving  his  courtiers.  The  rest  are  giants  and 
giantesses.  Suffice  it,  to  save  our  taste  and  damn  our 
filly,  that  we  left  it  all  to  a  friend,  W.  G.,  who  in  the 
first  place  cheated  me  into  putting  a  name  to  them,  which 
I  did  not  mean,  but  do  not  repent,  and  then  wrote  a  puff 
about  their  simplicity,  etc.,  to  go  with  the  advertisement 
as  in  my  name !  Enough  of  this  egregious  dupery.  I 
will  try  to  abstract  the  load  of  teasing  circumstances  from 
the  stories  and  tell  you  that  I  am  answerable  for  Lear, 
Macbeth,  Timon,  Romeo,  Hamlet,  Othello,  for  occasionally 
a  tailpiece  or  correction  of  grammar,  for  none  of  the  cuts 

and  all  of  the  spelling.     The  rest  is  my  Sister's. Wo 

think  Pericles  of  hers  the  best,  and  Othello  of  mine ;  but 
R 


242  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

I  hope  all  have  some  good.  As  you  like  It,  we  like  least. 
So  much,  only  begging  you  to  tear  out  the  cuts  and  give 
them  to  Johnny,  as  "  Airs.  Godwin's  fancy  " ! ! — 

C.  L. 
Our  love  to  all. 

I  had  almost  forgot,  My  part  of  the  Preface  begins  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence,  in  last  but  one  page,  after  a 
colon,  thus — 

: — which  if  they  be  happily  so  done,  etc. 

the  former  part  hath  a  more  feminine  turn  and  does 
hold  me  up  something  as  an  instructor  to  young  ladies  : 
but  upon  ray  modesty's  honour  I  wrote  it  not. 

Godwin  told  iny  Sister  that  the  Baby  chose  the  sub- 
jects :  a  fact  in  taste. 

To  EEV.  W.  HAZLITT. 
LETTER  CXXVIL]  Temple,  February  18,  1808. 

Sir — I  am  truly  concerned  that  any  mistake  of  mine 
should  have  caused  you  uneasiness,  but  I  hope  we  have 
got  a  clue  to  William's  absence,  which  may  clear  up  all 
apprehensions.  The  people  where  he  lodges  in  town  have 
received  direction  from  him  to  forward  some  linen  to  a 
place  called  Winterslow,  in  the  county  of  Wilts  (not  far 
frDm  Salisbury),  where  the  lady  lives,  whose  cottage, 
pictured  upon  a  card,  if  you  opened  my  letter  you  have 
doubtless  seen ;  and  though  we  have  had  no  explanation 
of  the  mystery  since,  we  shrewdly  suspect  that  at  the 
time  ot  writing  that  letter  which  has  given  you  all  this 
trouble,  a  certain  son  of  yours  (who  is  both  painter  and 
author)  was  at  her  elbow,  and  did  assist  in  framing  that 
very  cartoon  which  was  sent  to  amuse  and  mislead  us  in 
town,  as  to  the  real  place  of  his  destination.  And  some 
words  at  the  back  of  the  said  cartoon,  which  we  had  not 
marked  so  narrowly  before,  by  the  similarity  of  the  hand- 
writing to  William's,  do  very  much  confirm  the  suspicion,, 


TO  MANNING.  243 

If  our  theory  be  right,  they  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
their  jest,  and  I  am  afraid  you  have  paid  for  it  in  anxiety. 
But  I  hope  your  uneasiness  will  now  be  removed,  and 
you  will  pardon  a  suspense  occasioned  by  LOVE,  who  does 
so  many  worse  mischiefs  every  day.  - 

The  letter  to  the  people  where  William  lodges  says, 
moreover,  that  he  shall  be  in  town  in  a  fortnight. 

My  sister  joins  in  respects  to  you  and  Mrs.  Haditt, 
and  in  our  kindest  remembrances  and  wishes  for  the 
restoration  of  Peggy's  health. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant,  CH.  LAMB. 

Rev.  W.  Hazlitt,  Wem,  Shropshire. 

To  THOMAS  MANNING. 
LETTER  CXXVIIL]  February  26,  1808. 

Dear  Missionary — Your  letters  from  the  farthest  ends 
of  the  world  have  arrived  safe.  Mary  is  very  thankful 
for  your  remembrance  of  her ;  and  with  the  less  suspicion 
of  mercenariness,  as  the  silk,  the  symbolum  materiale  of 
your  friendship,  has  not  yet  appeared.  I  think  Horace 
says  somewhere,  nox  longa.  I  would  not  impute  negli- 
gence or  unhandsome  delays  to  a  person  whom  you  have 
honoured  with  your  confidence,  but  I  have  not  heard  of 
the  silk,  or  of  Mr.  Knox,  save  by  your  letter.  Maybe 
he  expects  the  first  advances !  or  it  may  be  that  he  has 
not  succeeded  in  getting  the  article  on  shore,  for  it  is 
among  the  res  prohibitce  et  non  nisi  smuggle-ationis  vid 
fruendce.  But  so  it  is,  in  the  friendships  between  wicked 
•men  the  very  expressions  of  their  goodwill  cannot  but  be 
sinful.  I  suppose  you  know  my  farce  was  damned.  The 
noise  still  rings  in  my  ears.  Were  you  ever  in  the 
pillory  1 — being  damned  is  something  like  that.  A  treaty 
of  marriage  is  on  foot  between  William  Hazlitt  and  Miss 
Stoddart.  Something  about  settlements  only  retards  it. 
She  has  somewhere  about  £80  a  year,  to  be  £120  when 
her  mother  dies.  He  has  no  settlement  except  what  he 


244  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

can  claim  from  the  Parish.  Pauper  est  tamen,  sed  amat. 
The  thing  is  therefore  in  abeyance.  But  there  is  love  a- 
both  sides.  Little  Fenwick  (you  don't  see  the  connection 
of  ideas  here ;  how  the  devil  should  vou  ?)  is  in  the  rules 
of  the  Fleet.  Cruel  creditors  !  operation  of  iniquitous 
laws.  Is  Magna  Charta  then  a  mockery  1  Why,  in 
general  (here  I  suppose  you  to  ask  a  question)  my  spirits 
are  pretty  good ;  but  I  have  my  depressions,  black  as  a 
smith's  beard,  Vulcanic,  Stygian.  At  such  times  I  have 
recourse  to  a  pipe,  which  is  like  not  being  at  home  to  a 
dun :  he  comes  again  with  tenfold  bitterness  the  next 
day. — (Mind,  I  am  not  in  debt ;  I  only  born  w  a  simili- 
tude from  others ;  it  shows  imagination.)  I  have  done 
two  books  since  the  failure  of  my  farce ;  they  will  both 
be  out  this  Summer.  The  one  is  a  juvenile  book — the 
Adventures  of  Ulysses,  intended  to  be  an  introduction  to 
the  reading  of  Tdemachus !  It  is  done  out  of  the 
Odyssey,  not  from  the  Greek  (I  would  not  mislead  you), 
nor  yet  from  Pope's  Odyssey,  but  from  an  older  transla- 
tion of  one  Chapman.  The  Shakspeare  Tales  suggested 
the  doing  of  it.  Godwin  is  in  both  those  cases  my  book- 
seller. The  other  is  done  for  Longman,  and  is  Specimens 
of  English  Dramatic  Poets  contemporary  ivith  Shakspeare. 
Specimens  are  becoming  fashionable.  We  have  "  Speci- 
mens of  Ancient  English  Poets,"  "  Specimens  of  Modern 
English  Poets,"  "  Specimens  of  Ancient  English  Prose 
Writers,"  without  end.  They  used  to  be  called  "Beauties." 
You  have  seen  "  Beauties  of  Shakspeare  :"  so  have  many 
people  that  never  saw  any  beauties  in  Shakspeare.  Long- 
man is  to  print  it,  and  be  at  all  the  expense  and  risk,  and 
I  am  to  share  the  profits  after  all  deductions ;  i.e.  a  year 
or  two  hence  I  must  pocket  what  they  please  to  tell  me 
is  due  to  me.  But  the  book  is  such  as  I  am  glad  there 
should  be.  It  is  done  out  of  old  plays  at  the  Museum, 
and  out  of  Dodsley's  collection,  etc.  It  is  to  have  notes. 
So  I  go  creeping  on  since  I  was  lamed  with  that  cursed 
fall  from  off  the  top  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  into  the 
pit,  something  more  than  a  year  ago.  However,  I  have 


TO  MANNING.  245 

been  free  of  the  house  ever  since,  and  the  house  was  pretty 
free  with  me  upon  that  occasion.  Damn  'em,  how  they 
hissed  !  It  was  not  a  hiss  neither,  but  a  sort  of  a  frantic 
yell,  like  a  congregation  of  mad  geese,  with  roaring  some- 
times, like  bears,  mows  and  mops  like  apes,  sometimes 
snakes,  that  hiss'd  me  into  madness.  'Twas  like  St. 
Anthony's  temptations.  Mercy  on  us,  that  God  should 
give  his  favourite  children,  men,  mouths  to  speak  with, 
to  discourse  rationally,  to  promise  smoothly,  to  flatter 
agreeably,  to  encourage  warmly,  to  counsel  wisely,  to  sing 
with,  to  drink  with,  and  to  kiss  with,  and  that  they 
should  turn  them  into  mouths  of  adders,  bears,  wolves, 
hyenas,  and  whistle  like  tempests,  and  emit  breath 
through  them  like  distillations  of  aspic  poison,  to  asperse 
and  vilify  the  innocent  labours  of  their  fellow-creatures 
who  are  desirous  to  please  them  !  Heaven  be  pleased  to 
make  the  breath  stink  and  teeth  rot  out  of  them  all 
therefore :  make  them  a  reproach,  and  all  that  pass  by 
them  to  loll  out  their  tongue  at  them  !  Blind  mouths  ! 
as  Milton  somewhere  calls  them.  Do  you  like  Braham's 
singing?  The  little  Jew  has  bewitched  me.  I  follow 
him  like  as  the  boys  followed  Tom  the  Piper.  He  cures 
me  of  melancholy  as  David  cured  Saul :  but  I  don't  throw 
stones  at  him  as  Saul  did  at  David  in  payment.  I  was 
insensible  to  music  till  he  gave  me  a  new  sense.  Oh  that 
you  could  go  to  the  new  opera  of  Kais  to-night !  'Tis 
all  about  Eastern  manners ;  it  would  just  suit  you.  It 
describes  the  wild  Arabs,  wandering  Egyptians,  lying 
dervises,  and  all  that  sort  of  people,  to  a  hair.  You 
needn't  ha'  gone  so  far  to  see  what  you  see,  if  you  saw  it 
as  I  do  every  night  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  Braham's 
singing,  when  it  is  impassioned,  is  finer  than  Mrs. 
Siddons's  or  Mr.  Kemble's  acting !  and  when  it  is  not 
impassioned,  it  is  as  good  as  hearing  a  person  of  fine  sense 
talking.  The  brave  little  Jew !  Old  Sergeant  Hill  is 
dead.  Mrs.  Eickman  is  in  the  family  way.  It  is  thought 
that  Hazlitt  will  have  children  if  he  marries  Miss  Stoddart. 
I  made  a  pun  the  other  day,  and  palmed  it  upon  Holcroft, 


246  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

who  grinned  like  a  Cheshire  cat.  (Why  do  cats  grin  in 
Cheshire  ? — Because  it  was  once  a  county  palatine,  and 
the  cats  cannot  help  laughing  whenever  they  think  of  it, 
though  I  see  no  great  joke  in  it.)  I  said  that  Hoi  croft, 
on  being  asked  who  were  the  best  dramatic  writers  of 
the  day,  replied,  "  HOOK  AND  I."  Mr.  Hook  is  author 
of  several  pieces,  Tekeli,  etc.  You  know  what  hooks  and 
eyes  are,  don't  you1?  They  are  what  little  boys  do  up 
their  breeches  with.  Your  letter  had  many  things  in  it 
hard  to  be  understood  :  the  puns  were  ready  and  Swift- 
like;  but  don't  you  begin -to  be  melancholy  in  the  midst 
of  Eastern  customs  ?  "  The  mind  does  not  easily  conform 
to  foreign  usages,  even  in  trifles :  it  requires  something 
that  it  has  been  familiar  with."  That  begins  one  of  Dr. 
Hawkesworth's  papers  in  the  Adventurer,  and  is,  I  think, 
as  sensible  a  remark  as  ever  fell  from  the  Doctor's  mouth. 
White  is  at  Christ's  Hospital,  a  wit  of  the  first  magni- 
tude, but  would  rather  be  thought  a  gentleman,  like 
Congreve.  You  know  Congreve's  repulse  which  he  gave 
to  Voltaire,  when  he  came  to  visit  him  as  a  literary  man, 
that  he  wished  to  be  considered  only  in  the  light  of  a 
private  gentleman.  I  think  the  impertinent  Frenchman 
was  properly  answered.  I  should  just  serve  any  member 
of  the  French  Institute  in  the  same  manner,  that  wished 
to  be  introduced  to  me.  Buonaparte  has  voted  5000 
livres  to  Davy,  the  great  young  English  Chemist !  but  it 
has  not  arrived.  Coleridge  has  delivered  two  lectures  at 
the  Royal  Institution ;  two  more  intended,  but  he  did 
not  come.  It  is  thought  he  has  gone  sick  upon  them. 
He  isn't  well,  that's  certain.  Wordsworth  is  coming  to 
see  him.  He  sits  up  in  a  two  pair  of  stairs  room  at  the 
Courier  Office,  and  receives  visitors.  .  .  . 

Does  any  one  read  at  Canton?  Lord  Moira  is 
President  of  the  Westminster  Library.  I  suppose  you 
might  have  interest  with  Sir  Joseph  Banks  to  get  to  be 
president  of  any  similar  institution  that  should  be  set  up 
at  Canton.  I  think  public  reading-rooms  the  best  mode 
of  educating  young  men.  Solitary  reading  is  apt  to  give 


TO  GODWIN.  247 

the  headache.  Besides,  who  knows  that  you  do  read  1 
There  are  ten  thousand  institutions  similar  to  the  Royal 
Institution  which  have  sprung  up  from  it.  There  is 
the  London  Institution,  the  Southwark  Institution,  the 
Russell  Square  Rooms  Institution,  etc. — College  quasi 
Conlege,  a  place  where  people  read  together.  Words- 
worth, the  great  poet,  is  coming  to  town  ;  he  is  to  have 
apartments  in  the  Mansion  House.  He  says  he  does  not 
see  much  difficulty  in  writing  like  Shakspeare,  if  he  had 
a  mind  to  try  it.  It  is  clear  that  nothing  is  wanting  but 
the  mind.  Even  Coleridge  was  a  little  checked  at  this 
hardihood  of  assertion.  Dyer  came  to  me  the  other 
evening  at  1 1  o'clock,  when  there  was  a  large  room  full 
of  company,  which  I  usually  get  together  on  a  Wednesday 
evening  (all  great  men  have  public  days),  to  propose  to 
me  to  have  my  face  done  by  a  Miss  Beetham  (or  Betham), 
a  miniature  painter,  some  relation  to  Mrs.  Beetham  the 
Profilist  or  Pattern  Mangle  woman  opposite  St.  Dunstan's, 
to  put  before  my  book  of  Extracts.  I  declined  it. 

Well,  my  dear  Manning,  talking  cannot  be  infinite. 
I  have  said  all  I  have  to  say ;  the  rest  is  but  remem- 
brances of  you,  which  we  shall  bear  in  our  heads  while 
we  have  heads.  Here  is  a  packet  of  trifles  nothing 
worth ;  but  it  is  a  trifling  part  of  the  world  where  I 
live  :  emptiness  abounds.  But  in  fulness  of  affection,  we 
remain  yours,  0.  L. 


To  WILLIAM  GODWIN. 
LETTER  CXXIX.]  March  11,  1808. 

Dear  Godwin — The  giant's  vomit  was  perfectly  nau- 
seous, and  I  am  glad  you  pointed  it  out.  I  have  removed 
the  objection.  To  the  other  passages  I  can  find  no  other 
objection  but  what  you  may  bring  to  numberless  passages 
besides,  such  as  of  Scylla  snatching  up  the  six  men,  etc., 
— that  is  to  say,  they  are  lively  images  of  shocking  things. 
If  you  want  a  book,  which  is  not  occasionally  to  shock, 


248  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

you  should  uot  have  thought  of  a  tale  which  was  so  full 
of  anthropophagi  and  wonders.  I  cannot  alter  these 
things  without  enervating  the  Book,  and  I  will  not  alter 
them  if  the  penalty  should  be  that  you  and  all  the  London 
booksellers  should  refuse  it.  But  speaking  as  author  to 
author,  I  must  say  that  I  think  the  terrible  in  those  two 
passages  seems  to  me  so  much  to  preponderate  over  the 
nauseous,  as  to  make  them  rather  fine  than  disgusting. 
Who  is  to  read  them,  I  don't  know  :  who  is  it  that  reads 
"  Tales  of  Terror  "  and  "  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  "1  Such 
things  sell.  I  only  say  that  I  will  not  consent  to  alter 
such  passages,  which  I  know  to  be  some  of  the  best  in 
the  book.  As  an  author,  I  say  to  you  an  author :  touch 
not  my  work.  As  to  a  bookseller  I  say,  Take  the  work 
such  as  it  is,  or  refuse  it.  You  are  as  free  to  refuse  it 
as  when  we  first  talked  of  it.  As  to  a  friend  I  say, 
Don't  plague  yourself  and  me  with  nonsensical  objections. 
I  assure  you  I  will  not  alter  one  more  word. 


To  MRS.  HAZLITT. 

LETTER  CXXX.]  Saturday,  December  10,  1808. 

There  came  this  morning  a  printed  Prospectus  from 
"  S.  T.  Coleridge,  Grasmere,"  of  a  Weekly  Paper,  to  be 
called  The  Friend;  a  flaming  Prospectus.  I  have  no 
time  to  give  the  heads  of  it.  To  commence  the  first 
Saturday  in  January.  There  came  also  notice  of  a  turkey 
from  Mr.  Clarkson,  which  I  am  more  sanguine  in  expect- 
ing the  accomplishment  of  than  I  am  of  Coleridge's 
prophecy.  C.  LAMB. 

Mrs.  Hazlitt,  Winterslow, 
near  Sarum,  Wilts. 


CHAPTER  TIL 

1809-1816. 

LETTERS  TO  MANNING,  COLERIDGE,  WORDSWORTH, 
AND   OTHERS. 

To  THOMAS  MANNING. 

Southampton  Buildings, 
LETTER.CXXXI.]  March  28,  1809. 

DEAR  MANNING — I  sent  you  a  long  letter  by  the  ships 
which  sailed  the  beginning  of  last  month,  accompanied 
with  books,  etc.  Since  I  last  wrote  Holcroft  is  dead. 
He  died  on  Thursday  last.  So  there  is  one  of  your 
friends  whom  you  will  never  see  again !  Perhaps  the 
next  fleet  may  bring  you  a  letter  from  Martin  Burney,  to 
say  that  he  writes  by  desire  of  Miss  Lamb,  who  is  not 
well  enough  to  write  herself,  to  inform  you  that  her 
brother  died  on  Thursday  last,  14th  June,  etc.  But  I 
hope  not.  I  should  be  sorry  to  give  occasion  to  open  a 
correspondence  between  Martin  and  you.  This  letter 
must  be  short,  for  I  have  driven  it  off  to  the  very  moment 
of  doing  up  the  packets ;  and  besides,  that  which  I  refer 
to  above  is  a  very  long  one ;  and  if  you  have  received 
my  books,  you  will  have  enough  to  do  to  read  them. 
While  I  think  on  it,  let  me  tell  you,  we  are  moved. 
Don't  come  any  more  to  Mitre  Court  Buildings.  We  are 
at  34,  Southampton  Buildings,  Chancery  Lane,  and  shall 
be  here  till  about  the  end  of  May ;  then  we  remove  to 


250  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

No.  4,  Inner  Temple  Lane,  where  I  mean  to  live  and  die ; 
for  I  have  such  horror  of  moving,  that  I  would  not  take 
a  benefice  from  the  King  if  I  was  not  indulged  with  non- 
residence.  What  a  dislocation  of  comfort  is  comprised 
in  that  word  "moving!"  Such  a  heap  of  little  nasty 
things,  after  you  think  all  is  got  into  the  cart :  old 
dredging-boxes,  worn-out  brushes,  gallipots,  vials,  things 
that  it  is  impossible  the  most  necessitous  person  can  ever 
want,  but  which  the  women,  who  preside  on  these  occa- 
sions, will  not  leave  behind  if  it  was  to  save  your  soul. 
They'd  keep  the  cart  ten  minutes  to  stow  in  dirty  pipes 
and  broken  matches,  to  show  their  economy.  Then  you 
can  find  nothing  you  want  for  many  days  after  you  get 
into  your  new  lodgings.  You  must  comb  your  hair  with 
your  fingers,  wash  your  hands  without  soap,  go  about  in 
dirty  gaiters.  Were  I  Diogenes,  I  would  not  move  out 
of  a  kilderkin  into  a  hogshead,  though  the  first  had  had 
nothing  but  small  beer  in  it,  and  the  second  reeked  claret. 
Our  place  of  final  destination — I  don't  mean  the  grave, 
but  No.  4,  Inner  Temple  Lane — looks  out  upon  a  gloomy 
churchyard-like  court,  called  Hare  Court,  with  three  trees 
and  a  pump  in  it.  Do  you  know  it  1  I  was  born  near 
it,  and  used  to  drink  at  that  pump  when  I  was  a 
Rechabite  of  six  years  old.  If  you  see  newspapers  you 
will  read  about  Mrs.  Clarke.  The  sensation  in  London 
about  this  nonsensical  business  is  marvellous.  I  remember 
nothing  in  my  life  like  it :  thousands  of  ballads,  carica- 
tures, lives  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  in  every  blind  alley.  Yet  in 
the  midst  of  this  stir,  a  sublime  abstracted  dancing- 
master,  who  attends  a  family  we  know  at  Kensington, 
being  asked  a  question  about  the  progress  of  the  examina- 
tions in  the  House,  inquired  who  Mrs.  Clarke  was  ?  He 
had  heard  nothing  of  it.  He  had  evaded  this  omni- 
presence by  utter  insignificancy !  The  Duke  should 
make  that  man  his  confidential  valet.  I  proposed  locking 
him  up,  barring  him  the  use  of  his  fiddle  and  red  pumps, 
until  he  had  minutely  perused  and  committed  to  memory 
the  whole  body  of  the  examinations,  which  employed  the 


TO  COLERIDGE.  251 

House  of  Commons  a  fortnight,  to  teach  him  to  be  more 
attentive  to  what  concerns  the  public.  I  think  I  told 
you  of  Godwin's  little  book,  and  of  Coleridge's  prospectus, 
in  my  last ;  if  I  did  not,  remind  me  of  it,  and  I  will  send 
you  them,  or  an  account  of  them,  next  fleet.  I  have  no 

conveniency  of  doing  it  by  this.     Mrs. grows  every 

day  in  disfavour  with  me.  I  will  be  buried  with  this 
inscription  over  me : — "  Here  lies  C.  L.,  the  woman- 
hater:"  I  mean  that  hated  one  woman:  for  the  rest, 
God  bless  them  !  How  do  you  like  the  Mandarinesses  1 
Are  you  on  some  little  footing  with  any  of  them  ?  This 
is  Wednesday.  Oil  Wednesdays  is  my  levee.  The 
Captain,  Martin,  Phillips  (not  the  Sheriff),  Rickman,  and 
some  more,  are  constant  attendants,  besides  stray  visitors. 
We  play  at  whist,  eat  cold  meat  and  hot  potatoes,  and 
any  gentleman  that  chooses  smokes.  Why  do  you  never 
drop  in  ?  You'll  come  some  day,  won't  you  ? 

C.  LAMB,  etc. 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 
LETTER  CXXXIL]  June  7,  1809. 

Dear  Coleridge — I  congratulate  you  on  the  appearance 
of  the  Friend.  Your  first  Number  promises  well,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  the  succeeding  Numbers  will  fulfil  the 
promise.  I  had  a  kind  letter  from  you  some  time  since, 
which  I  have  left  unanswered.  I  am  also  obliged  to  you, 
I  believe,  for  a  review  in  the  Annual,  am  I  not  ?  The 
Monthly  Review  sneers  at  me,  and  asks  "if  Comus  is  not 
good  enough  for  Mr.  Lamb1?"  because  I  have  said  no 
good  serious  dramas  have  been  written  since  the  death  of 
Charles  the  First,  except  Samson  Agonistes.  So  because 
they  do  not  know,  or  won't  remember,  that  Comus  was 
written  long  before,  I  am  to  be  set  down  as  an  under- 
valuer  of  Milton  !  0  Coleridge,  do  kill  those  reviews,  or 
they  will  kill  us ;  kill  all  we  like.  Be  a  friend  to  all 
else,  but  their  foe.  I  have  been  turned  out  of  my 


252  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

chambers  in  the  Temple  by  a  landlord  who  wanted  them 
for  himself,  but  I  have  got  other  at  No.  4,  Inner  Temple 
Lane,  far  more  commodious  and  roomy.  I  have  two 
rooms  on  the  third  floor  and  five  rooms  above,  with  an 
inner  staircase  to  myself,  and  all  new  painted,  etc.,  and 
all  for  £30  a  year !  I  came  into  them  on  Saturday 
week ;  and  on  Monday  following  Mary  was  taken  ill  with 
the  fatigue  of  moving;  and  affected,  I  believe,  by  the 
novelty  of  the  home  she  could  not  sleep,  and  I  am  left 
alone  with  a  maid  quite  a  stranger  to  me,  and  she  has  a 
month  or  two's  sad  distraction  to  go  through.  What 
sad  large  pieces  it  cuts  out  of  life  ! — out  of  her  life,  who 
is  getting  rather  old ;  and  we  may  not  have  many  years 
to  live  together.  I  am  weaker,  and  bear  it  worse  than 
I  ever  did.  But  I  hope  we  shall  be  comfortable  by  and 
by.  The  rooms  are  delicious,  and  the  best  look  back- 
wards into  Hare  Court,  where  there  is  a  pump  always 
going.  Just  now  it  is  dry.  Hare  Court  trees  come  in 
at  the  window,  so  that  'tis  like  living  in  a  garden.  I  try 
to  persuade  myself  it  is  much  pleasanter  than  Mitrt 
Court ;  but,  alas  !  the  household  gods  are  slow  to  come 
in  a  new  mansion.  They  are  in  their  infancy  to  me ;  I 
do  not  feel  them  yet ;  no  hearth  has  blazed  to  them  yet. 
How  I  hate  and  dread  new  places  ! 

I  was  very  glad  to  see  Wordsworth's  book  advertised : 
I  am  to  have  it  to-morrow  lent  me,  and  if  Wordsworth 
don't  send  me  an  order  for  one  upon  Longman,  I  will  buy 
it  It  is  greatly  extolled  and  liked  by  all  who  have  seen 
it.  Let  me  hear  from  some  of  you,  for  I  am  desolate. 
I  shall  have  to  send  you,  in  a  week  or  two,  two  volumes 
of  Juvenile  Poetry,  done  by  Mary  and  me  within  the  last 
six  months,  and  that  tale  in  prose  which  Wordsworth  so 
much  liked,  which  was  published  at  Christmas,  with  nine 
others,  by  us,  and  has  reached  a  second  edition.  There's 
for  you.  We  have  almost  worked  ourselves  out  of  child's 
work,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Sometimes  I  think 
of  a  drama,  but  I  have  no  head  for  play-making ;  I  can 
do  the  dialogue,  and  that's  all.  I  am  quite  aground  for 


TO  COLERIDGE.  253 

ft  plan  ;  but  I  must  do  something  for  money.     Not  that 
I  have  immediate  wants,  but  I  have  prospective  ones. 

0  money,  money,  how  blindly  thou  hast  been  worshipped, 
and  how  stupidly  abused  !     Thou  art  health  and  liberty 
and  strength ;  and  he  that  has  thee  may  rattle  his  pockets 
at  the  Devil. 

Nevertheless,  do  not  understand  by  this  that  I  have 
not  quite  enough  for  my  occasions  for  a  year  or  two  to 
come.  While  I  think  on  it,  Coleridge,  I  fetch'd  away 
my  books  which  you  had  at  the  Courier  Office,  and  found 
all  but  a  third  volume  of  the  old  plays,  containing  the 
White  Demi.  Green's  Tu  Quoqut,  and  the  Honest  Whore, 
perhaps  the  most  valuable  volume  of  them  all — that  I 
could  not  find.  Pray,  if  you  can,  remember  what  you 
did  with  it,  or  where  you  took  it  out  with  you  a  walking 
perhaps ;  send  me  word,  for,  to  use  the  old  plea,  it  spoils 
a  set.  I  found  two  other  volumes  (you  had  three),  the 
Arcadia,  and  Daniel,  enriched  with  manuscript  notes. 

1  wish  every  book  I  have  were  so  noted.     They  have 
thoroughly  converted  me  to  relish  Daniel,  or  to  say  I 
relish  him,  for  after  all,  I  believe  I  did  relish  him.     You 
well  call  him  sober-minded.     Your  notes  are  excellent. 
Perhaps  you've  forgot  them.     I  have  read  a  review  in 
the  Quarterly,  by  Southey,  on  the  Missionaries,  which  is 
most  masterly.     I  only  grudge  its  being  there.     It  is 
quite  beautiful.     Do  remember  my  Dodsley ;  and,  pray, 
do  write,  or  let  some  of  you  write.     Clarkson  tells  me 
you  are  in  a  smoky  house.     Have  you  cured  it  ?     It  is 
hard  to  cure  anything  of  smoking.     Our  little  poems  are 
but  humble,  but  they  have  no  name.     You  must  read 
them,  remembering  they  were  task  work ;  and  perhaps 
you  will  admire  the  number  of  sxibjects,  all  of  children, 
picked  out  by  an  old  Bachelor  and  an  old  Maid.     Many 
parents  would  not  have  found  so  many.     Have  you  read 
Calebs  ?    It  has  reached  eight  editions  in  so  many  weeks, 
yet  literally  it  is  one  of  the  very  poorest  sort  of  common 
novels,  with  the  draw-back  of  dull  religion  in  it.     Had 
the  religion  been  high  and  flavoured,  it  would  have  been 


254  LET1BR3  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

something.  I  borrowed  this  Ccelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife, 
of  a  very  careful,  neat  lady,  and  returned  it  with  this 
stuff  written  in  the  beginning  : — 

"If  ever  I  marry  a  wife 

I'll  marry  a  landlord's  daughter, 
For  then  I  may  sit  in  the  bar, 

And  drink  cold  brandy  and  water." 

I  don't  expect  you  can  find  time  from  your  Friend  to 
write  to  me  much ;  but  write  something,  for  there  has 
been  a  long  silence.  You  know  Holcroft  is  dead.  God- 
win is  well.  He  has  written  a  very  pretty,  absurd  book 
about  sepulchres.  He  was  affronted  because  I  told  him 
it  was  better  than  Hervey,  but  not  so  good  as  Sir  T. 
Browne.  This  letter  is  all  about  books ;  but  my  head 
aches,  and  I  hardly  know  what  I  write,  but  I  could  not 
let  the  Friend  pass  without  a  congratulatory  epistle.  I 
won't  criticise  till  it  comes  to  a  volume.  Tell  me  how  I 
shall  send  my  packet  to  you  1 — by  what  conveyance  1 — 
by  Longman,  Short-man,  or  how1?  Give  my  kindest 
remembrances  to  Wordsworth.  Tell  him  he  must  give 
me  a  book.  My  kind  love  to  Mrs.  W.  and  to  Dorothy 
separately  and  conjointly.  I  wish  you  could  all  come 
and  see  me  in  my  new  rooms.  .  God  bless  you  all. 

C.  L. 


LETTER  CXXXIIL]  Monday,  October  30,  1809. 

Dear  Coleridge — I  have  but  this  moment  received 
your  letter,  dated  the  9th  instant,  having  just  come  off  a 
journey  from  Wiltshire,  where  I  have  been  with  Mary  on 
a  visit  to  Hazlitt.  The  journey  has  been  of  infinite  ser- 
vice to  her.  We  have  had  nothing  but  sunshiny  days, 
and  daily  walks  from  eight  to  twenty  miles  a  day ;  have 
seen  Wilton,  Salisbury,  Stonehenge,  etc.  Her  illness 
lasted  but  six  weeks ;  it  left  her  weak,  but  the  country 
has  made  us  whole.  We  came  back  to  our  Hogarth 
Room.  I  have  made  several  acquisitions  since  you  saw 
them,— and  found  Nos.  8,  9,.  10  of  the  Friend,  The 


TO  MANNING.  255 

account  of  Luther  in  the  Warteburg  is  as  fine  as  any- 
thing I  ever  read.  God  forbid  that  a  man  who  has  such 
things  to  say  should  be  silenced  for  want  of  £100.  This 
Custom-and-Duty  Age  would  have  made  the  Preacher  on 
the  Mount  take  out  a  licence,  and  St.  Paul's  Epistles 
would  not  have  been  missible  without  a  stamp.  0  that 
you  may  find  means  to  go  on  !  But  alas  !  where  is 
Sir  G.  Beaumont  1 — Sotheby?  What  is  become  of  the 
rich  Auditors  in  Albemarle  Street1?  Your  letter  has 
saddened  me. 

I  am  so  tired  with  my  journey,  being  up  all  night, 
that  I  have  neither  things  nor  words  in  my  power.  I 
believe  I  expressed  my  admiration  of  the  pamphlet.  Its 
power  over  me  was  like  that  which  Milton's  pamphlets 
must  have  had  on  his  contemporaries,  who  were  tuned  to 
them.  What  a  piece  of  prose !  Do  you  hear  if  it  is 
read  at  all  1  I  am  out  of  the  world  of  readers.  I  hate 
all  that  do  read,  for  they  read  nothing  but  reviews  and 
new  books.  I  gather  myself  up  unto  the  old  things. 

I  have  put  up  shelves.  You  never  saw  a  book-case 
in  more  true  harmony  with  the  contents  than  what  I've 
nailed  up  in  a  room,  which,  though  new,  has  more  apti- 
tudes for  growing  old  than  you  shall  often  see — as  one 
sometimes  gets  a  friend  in  the  middle  of  life,  who  becomes 
an  old  friend  in  a  short  time.  My  rooms  are  luxurious ; 
one  is  for  prints  and  one  for  books ;  a  Summer  and  a 
Winter  parlour.  When  shall  I  ever  see  you  in  them  ? 

0.  L. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 
LETTER  CXXXIV.]  January  2,  1810. 

Dear  Manning — When  I  last  wrote  to  you  I  was  in 
lodgings.  I  am  now  in  chambers,  No.  4,  Inner  Temple 
Lane,  where  I  should  be  happy  to  see  you  any  evening. 
Bring  any  of  your  friends,  the  Mandarins,  with  you.  I 
have  two  sitting-rooms  :  I  call  them  so  pir  excellence,  foi 


256  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

you  may  stand,  or  loll,  or  lean,  or  try  any  posture  in 
them,  but  they  are  best  for  sitting ;  not  squatting  down 

Japanese  fashion,  but  the  more  decorous  use  of  the 

which  European  usage  has  consecrated.  I  have  two  of 
these  rooms  on  the  third  floor,  and  five  sleeping,  cooking, 
etc.,  rooms,  on  the  fourth  floor.  In  my  best  room  is  a 
choice  collection  of  the  works  of  Hogarth,  an  English 
painter  of  some  humour.  In  my  next  best  are  shelves 
containing  a  small  but  well -chosen  library.  My  best 
room  commands  a  court,  in  which  there  are  trees  and  a 
pump,  the  water  of  which  is  excellent  cold,  with  brandy, 
and  not  very  insipid  without.  Here  I  hope  to  set  up  my 
rest,  and  not  quit  till  Mr.  Powell,  the  undertaker,  gives 
me  notice  that  I  may  have  possession  of  my  last  lodging. 
He  lets  lodgings  for  single  gentlemen.  I  sent  you  a 
parcel  of  books  by  my  last,  to  give  you  some  idea  of  the 
state  of  European  literature.  There  comes  with  this  two 
volumes,  done  up  as  letters,  of  minor  poetry,  a  sequel  to 
"Mrs.  Leicester;"  the  best  you  may  suppose  mine;  the 
next  best  are  my  coadjutor's.  You  may  amuse  yourself 
in  guessing  them  out ;  but  I  must  tell  you  mine  are  but 
one-third  in  quantity  of  the  whole.  So  much  for  a  very 
delicate  subject.  It  is  hard  to  speak  of  one's  self,  etc. 
Holcroft  had  finished  his  life  when  I  wrote  to  you,  and 
Hazlitt  has  since  finished  his  life ;  I  do  not  mean  his  own 
life,  but  he  has  finished  a  life  of  Holcroft,  which  is  going 
to  press.  Tuthill  is  Dr.  Tuthill.  I  continue  Mr.  Lamb. 
I  have  published  a  little  book  for  children  on  titles  of 
honour ;  and  to  give  them  some  idea  of  the  difference  of 
rank  and  gradual  rising,  I  have  made  a  little  scale,  sup- 
posing myself  to  receive  the  following  various  accessions 
of  dignity  from  the  king,  who  is  the  fountain  of  honour — 
As  at  first,  1,  Mr.  C.  Lamb ;  2,  C.  Lamb,  Esq. ;  3,  Sir 
C.  Lamb,  Bart. ;  4,  Baron  Lamb,  of  Stamford ;  5, 
Viscount  Lamb ;  6,  Earl  Lamb ;  7,  Marquis  Lamb ;  8, 
Duke  Lamb.  It  would  look  like  quibbling  to  carry  it  on 
further,  and  especially  as  it  is  not  necessary  for  children 
to  go  beyond  the  ordinary  titles  of  sub-regal  dignity  in 


TO  MANNING.  257 

our  own  country;  otherwise  I  have  sometimes  in  my 
dreams  imagined  myself  still  advancing,  as  9th,  King 
Lamb;  10th,  Emperor  Lamb;  llth,  Pope  Innocent; 
higher  than  which  is  nothing  upon  earth.  Puns  I  have 
not  made  many  (nor  punch  much)  since  the  date  of  my 
last ;  one  I  cannot  help  relating.  A  constable  in  Salis- 
bury Cathedral  was  telling  me  that  eight  people  dined  at 
the  top  of  the  spire  of  the  cathedral ;  upon  uhich  I 
remarked,  that  they  must  be  very  sharp  set.  But  in 
general  I  cultivate  the  reasoning  part  of  my  mind  more 
than  the  imaginative.  I  am  stuffed  out  so  with  eating 
turkey  for  dinner,  and  another  turkey  for  supper  yester- 
day (Turkey  in  Europe  and  Turkey  in  Asia),  that  I  can't 
jog  on.  It  is  New  Year  here ;  that  is,  it  was  New  Year 
half  a  year  back,  when  I  was  writing  this.  Nothing 
puzzles  me  more  than  time  and  space ;  and  yet  nothing 
puzzles  me  less,  for  I  never  think  about  them.  The 
Persian  ambassador  is  the  principal  thing  talked  of  now. 
I  sent  some  people  to  see  him  worship  the  sun  on  Prim- 
rose Hill,  at  half-past  six  in  the  morning,  28th  November ; 
but  he  did  not  come,  which  makes  me  think  the  old  fire- 
worshippers  are  a  sect  almost  extinct  in  Persia.  The 
Persian  ambassador's  name  is  Shaw  Ali  Mirza.  The 
common  people  call  him  Shaw  Nonsense.  While  I  think 
of  it,  I  have  put  three  letters,  besides  my  own  three,  into 
the  India  post  for  you,  from  your  brother,  sister,  and 
some  gentleman  whose  name  I  forget.  Will  they,  have 
they,  did  they  come  safe  1  The  distance  you  are  at,  cuts 
up  tenses  by  the  root.  I  think  you  said  you  did  not 
know  Kate  *********.  I  express  her  by  nine 
stars,  though  she  is  but  one.  You  must  have  seen  her 
at  her  father's.  Try  and  remember  her.  Coleridge  is 
bringing  out  a  paper  in  weekly  Numbers,  called  the 
Friend,  which  I  would  send  if  I  could ;  but  the  difficulty 
I  had  in  getting  the  packets  of  books  out  to  you  before, 
deters  me ;  and  you'll  want  something  new  to  read  when 
you  come  home.  It  is  chiefly  intended  to  puff  off  Words- 
worth's poetry ;  but  there  are  some  noble  things  in  it  by 
8 


258  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  by.  Except  Kate,  I  have  had  no  vision  of  excellence 
this  year,  and  she  passed  by  like  the  Queen  on  her  corona- 
tion day ;  you  don't  know  whether  you  saw  her  or  not. 
Kate  is  fifteen :  I  go  about  moping,  and  sing  the  old 
pathetic  ballad  I  used  to  like  in  my  youth — 

"  She's  sweet  fifteen, 
I'm  one  year  more." 

Mm.  Bland  sang  it  in  boy's  clothes  the  first  time  I 
heard  it.  I  sometimes  think  the  lower  notes  in  my  voice 
are  like  Mrs.  Eland's.  That  glorious  singer,  Braham, 
one  of  my  lights,  is  fled.  He  was  for  a  season.  He  was 
a  rare  composition  of  the  Jew,  the  gentleman,  and  the 
angel ;  yet  all  these  elements  mixed  up  so  kindly  in  him, 
that  you  could  not  tell  which  preponderated ;  but  he  is 
gone,  and  one  Phillips  is  engaged  instead.  Kate  is 
vanished,  but  Miss  B is  always  to  be  met  with  ! 

"  Queens  drop  away,  while  blue-legg'd  Maukin  thrives  ; 
And  courtly  Mildred  dies  while  country  Madge  survives." 

That  is  not  my  poetry,  but  Quarles's ;  but  haven't  you 
observed  that  the  rarest  things  are  the  least  obvious? 
Don't  show  anybody  the  names  in  this  letter.  I  write 
confidentially,  and  wish  this  letter  to  be  considered  as 
private.  Hazlitt  has  written  a  grammar  for  Godwin. 
Godwin  sells  it  bound  up  with  a  treatise  of  his  own  on 
language ;  but  the  gray  mare  is  the  better  hcsse.  I  don't 
allude  to  Mrs.  [Godwin],  but  to  the  word  grammar, 
which  comes  near  to  gray  mare,  if  you  observe,  in  sound. 
That  figure  is  called  paronomasia  in  Greek.  I  am  some- 
times happy  in  it.  An  old  woman  begged  of  me  for 
charity.  "  Ah  !  sir,"  said  she,  "  I  have  seen  better  days." 
"So  have  I,  good  woman,"  I  replied;  but  I  nu-;int, 
literally,  days  not  so  rainy  and  overcast  as  that  on  which 
she  begged :  she  meant  more  prosperous  days.  Mr. 
Dawe  is  made  associate  of  the  Royal  Academy.  By  what 
law  of  nssociation  I  can't  guess,  Mrs.  Holcroft,  Miss  Hoi- 
croft,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godwin,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  Mrs. 
Martin  and  Louisa,  Mrs.  Liun,  CV.pt.  Burney,  Mrs, 


f 


TO  GUTCH.  259 

Burney,  Martin  Burney,  Mr.  Rickman,  Mrs.  Rickman, 
Dr.  Stoddart,  William  Dollin,  Mr.  Thompson,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Norris,  Mr.  Fenwick,  Mrs.  Fenwick,  Miss  Fenwick. 
a  man  that  saw  you  at  our  house  one  day,  and  a  lady 
that  heard  me  speak  of  you ;  Mrs.  Buffam  that  heard 
Hazlitt  mention  you,  Dr.  Tuthill,  Mrs.  Tuthill,  Colonel 
Harwood,  Mrs.  Harwood,  Mr.  Collier,  Mrs.  Collier,  Mr. 
Sutton,  Nurse,  Mr.  Fell,  Mrs.  Fell,  Mr.  Marshall,  are 
very  well,  and  occasionally  inquire  after  you. 

I  remain  yours  ever,  CH.  LA  1KB. 


To  JOHN  MATHEW  GUTCH. 

LETTER  CXXXV.]  [April  9,  1810.] 

Dear  Gutch — I  did  not  see  your  brother,  who  brought 
me  Wither ;  but  he  understood,  he  said,  you  were  daily 
expecting  to  come  to  town :  this  has  prevented  my 
writing.  The  books  have  pleased  me  excessively :  I 
should  think  you  could  not  have  made  a  better  selection. 
I  never  saw  PhUarete  before — judge  of  my  pleasure.  I 
could  not  forbear  scribbling  certain  critiques  in  pencil  on 
the  blank  leaves.  Shall  I  send  them,  or  may  I  expect 
to  see  you  in  town  ?  Some  of  them  are  remarks  on  the 
character  of  Wither  and  of  his  writings.  Do  you  mean 
to  have  anything  of  that  kind  1  What  I  have  said  on 
PhUarete  is  poor,  but  I  think  some  of  the  rest  not  so  bad  : 
perhaps  I  have  exceeded  my  commission  in  scrawling 
over  the  copies  ;  but  my  delight  therein  must  excuse  me, 
and  pencil-marks  will  rub  out.  Where  is  the  Life? 
Write,  for  I  am  quite  in  the  dark. 

Yours,  with  many  thanks,  C.  LAMB. 

Perhaps  I  could  digest  the  few  critiques  prefixed  to 
the  Satires,  Shepherds  Hunting,  etc.,  into  a  short  ab- 
stract of  Wither's  character  and  works,  at  the  end  of  his 
Life.  But,  may  be,  you  don't  want  anything,  and  have 
said  all  you  wish  in  the  Life. 


260  LEfTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


To  BASIL  MONTAGU. 

Wintefslow,  near  Sarum, 
LETTER  CXXXVL]  July  12,  1810. 

Dear  Montagu — I  have  turned  and  twisted  the  MSS. 
in  my  head,  and  can  make  nothing  of  them.  I  knew 
when  I  took  them  that  I  could  not,  but  I  do  not  like  to 
do  an  act  of  ungracious  necessity  at  once ;  so  I  am  ever 
committing  myself  by  half  engagements,  and  total  failures. 
I  cannot  make  anybody  understand  why  I  can't  do  such 
things  ;  it  is  a  defect  in  my  occiput.  I  cannot  put  other 
people's  thoughts  together ;  I  forget  every  paragraph  as 
fast  as  I  read  it ;  and  my  head  lias  received  such  a  shock 
by  an  all-night  journey  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  that  I 
shall  have  enough  to  do  to  nurse  it  into  its  natural  pace 
before  I  go  home.  I  must  devote  myself  to  imbecility ; 
I  must  be  gloriously  useless  while  I  stay  here.  How  is 
Mrs.  M.  1  will  she  pardon  my  inefficiency  ?  The  city  of 
Salisbury  is  full  of  weeping  and  wailing.  The  bank  has 
stopped  payment ;  and  everybody  in  the  town  kept 
money  at  it,  or  has  got  some  of  its  notes.  Some  have 
lost  all  they  had  in  the  world.  It  is  the  next  thing  to 
seeing  a  city  with  the  plague  within  its  walls.  The 
Wilton  people  are  all  undone;  all  the  manufacturers 
there  kept  cash  at  the  Salisbury  bank ;  and  I  do  suppose 
it  to  be  the  unhappiest  county  in  England  this,  where  I 
am  making  holiday.  We  propose  setting  out  for  Oxford 
Tuesday  fortnight,  and  coming  thereby  home.  But  no 
more  night  travelling.  My  head  is  sore  (understand  it 
of  the  inside)  with  that  deduction  from  my  natural  rest 
which  I  suffered  coming  down.  Neither  Mary  nor  I  can 
spare  a  morsel  of  our  rest :  it  is  incumbent  on  us  to  be 
misers  of  it.  Travelling  is  not  good  for  us,  we  travel  so 
seldom.  If  the  sun  be  hell,  it  is  not  for  the  fire,  but  for 
the  sempiternal  motion  of  that  miserable  body  of  light. 
How  much  more  dignified  leisure  hath  a  mussel  glued  to 
hie  unpassable  rocky  limit  two  inch  square  !  He  hears 


TO  HAZLITT.  261 

the  tide  roll  over  him,  backwards  and  forwards  twice 
a  day  (as  the  Salisbury  long  coach  goes  and  returns  in 
eight-and-forty  hours),  but  knows  better  than  to  take  aji 
outside  night  place  a  top  on't.  He  is  the  owl  of  the  sea 
— Minerva's  fish — the  fish  of  wisdom. 

Our  kindest  remembrances  to  Mi's.  M. 

Yours  truly,  0.  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

LETTER  CXXXVIL]  Thursday  [Aiigust  9,  1810]. 

Dear  H. — Epistemon  is  not  well.  Our  pleasant  excur- 
sion has  ended  sadly  for  one  of  us.  You  will  guess  I 
mean  my  sister.  She  got  home  very  well  (I  was  very 
ill  on  the  journey)  and  continued  so  till  Monday  night, 
when  her  complaint  came  on,  and  she  is  now  absent  from 
home. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  all  well.  I  think  I  shall 
be  mad  if  I  take  any  more  journeys,  with  two  experiences 
against  it  I  found  all  well  here.  Kind  remembrances 
to  Sarah, — have  just  got  her  letter. 

H.  Robinson  has  been  to  Blenheim.  He  says  you  will 
be  sorry  to  hear  that  we  should  not  have  asked  for  the 
Titian  Gallery  there.  One  of  his  friends  knew  of  it,  and 
asked  to  see  it.  It  is  never  shown  but  to  those  who 
inquire  for  it. 

The  pictures  are  all  Titiaus,  Jupiter  and  Ledas,  Mars 
and  Venuses,  etc.,  all  naked  pictures,  which  may  be  a 
reason  they  don't  show  them  to  females.  But  he  says 
they  are  very  fine ;  and  perhaps  they  are  shown  separately 
to  put  another  fee  into  the  shower's  pocket.  Well,  I 
shall  never  see  it. 

I  have  lost  all  wish  for  sights.  God  bless  you.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  you  in  London. 

Yours  truly,  0.  LAMB. 

Mr.  Hazlitt,  "Winterslow, 
near  Salisbury. 


262  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

To  Miss  WORDSWORTH. 
LJTTZR  CXXXYIII.]  [August  1810.] 

Mary  has  left  a  little  space  for  me  to  fill  up  with  non 
gense,  as  the  geographers  used  to  cram  monsters  in  the 
voids  of  the  maps,  and  call  it  Terra  Incognita.  She  haa 
told  you  how  she  has  taken  to  water  like  a  hungry  otter. 
I  too  limp  after  her  in  lame  imitation,  but  it  goes  against 
me  a  little  at  first.  I  have  been  acquaintance  with  it  now 
for  full  four  days,  and  it  seems  a  moon.  I  am  full  of 
cramps  and  rheumatisms,  and  cold  internally,  so  that  fire 
won't  warm  me ;  yet  I  bear  all  for  virtue's  sake.  Must 
I  then  leave  you,  gin,  rum,  brandy,  aqua-vitae,  pleasant 
jolly  fellows?  Damn  temperance  and  he  that  first  invented 
it ! — some  Anti-Noahite.  Coleridge  has  powdered  his 
head,  and  looks  like  Bacchus,  Bacchus  ever  sleek  and 
young.  He  is  going  to  turn  sober,  but  his  clock  has  not 
struck  yet ;  meantime  he  pours  down  goblet  after  goblet, 
the  second  to  see  where  the  first  is  gone,  the  third  to  see 
no  harm  happens  to  the  second,  a  fourth  to  say  there  is 
another  coming,  and  a  fifth  to  say  he  is  not  sure  he  is 
the  last 

To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTEH  CXXXIX.]  Friday,  October  19, 1810.  E.I. Ho. 

Dear  W. — Mary  has  been  very  ill,  which  you  have 
heard,  I  suppose,  from  the  Montagus.  She  is  very  weak 
and  low-spirited  now.  I  was  much  pleased  with  your 
continuation  of  the  Essay  on  Epitaphs.  It  is  the  only 
sensible  thing  which  has  been  written  on  that  subject, 
and  it  goes  to  the  bottom.  In  particular  I  was  pleased 
with  your  translation  of  that  turgid  epiJaph  into  the  plain 
feeling  under  it.  It  is  perfectly  a  test.  But  what  is 
the  reason  we  have  no  good  epitaphs  after  all  ? 

A  very  striking  instance  of  your  position  might  be 
found  in  the  churchyard  of  Ditton-upon-Thames,  if  you 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  263 

know  such  a  place.  Ditton-upon-Thames  has  been  blessed 
by  the  residence  of  a  poet,  who  for  love  or  money — I  do 
not  well  know  which — has  dignified  every  gravestone,  for 
the  last  few  years,  with  bran-new  verses,  all  different,  and 
all  ingenious,  with  the  author's  name  at  the  bottom  of 
each.  This  SAveet  Swan  of  Thames  has  so  artfully  diver- 
sified his  strains  and  his  rhymes,  that  the  same  thought 
never  occurs  twice ;  more  justly,  perhaps,  as  no  thought 
ever  occurs  at  all,  there  was  a  physical  impossibility  that 
the  same  thought  should  recur.  It  is  long  since  I  saw 
and  read  these  inscriptions,  but  I  remember  the  impres- 
sion was  of  a  smug  usher  at  his  desk  in  the  intervals  of 
instruction,  levelling  his  pen.  Of  death,  as  it  consists  of 
dust  and  worms,  and  mourners  and  uncertainty,  he  had 
never  thought ;  but  the  word  "  death  "  he  had  often  seen 
separate  and  conjunct  with  other  words,  till  he  had 
learned  to  speak  of  all  its  attributes  as  glibly  as  Unitarian 
Belsham  will  discuss  you  the  attributes  of  the  word  "God" 
in  a  pulpit ;  and  will  talk  of  infinity  with  a  tongue  that 
dangles  from  a  skull  that  never  reached  in  thought  and 
thorough  imagination  two  inches,  or  further  than  from 
his  hand  to  his  mouth,  or  from  the  vestry  to  the  sounding- 
board  of  the  pulpit. 

But  the  epitaphs  were  trim,  and  sprag,  and  patent, 
and  pleased  the  survivors  of  Thames-Ditton  above  the  old 
mumpsimus  of  "  Afflictions  Sore."  ...  To  do  justice 
though,  it  must  be  owned  that  even  the  excellent  feeling 
which  dictated  this  dirge  when  new  must  have  suffered 
something  in  passing  through  so  many  thousand  applica- 
tions, many  of  them  no  doubt  quite  misplaced,  as  I  have 
seen  in  Islington  churchyard  (I  think)  an  Epitaph  to  an 
infant  who  died  "  jEtatis  four  months,"  with  this  season- 
able inscription  appended,  "  Honour  thy  father  and  thy 
mother;  that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land,"  etc. 
Sincerely  wishing  your  children  long  life  to  honour,  etc. 

I  remain,  C.  LAMB. 


264  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

To  Miss  WORDSWORTH. 
LETTEK  CXL.]  November  23,  1810. 

We  are  in  a  pickle.  Mary,  from  her  affectation  of 
physiognomy,  has  hired  a  stupid  big  country  wench,  who 
looked  honest,  as  she  thought,  and  has  been  doing  her 
work  some  days,  but  without  eating — eats  no  butter,  nor 
meat,  but  prefers  cheese  with  her  tea  for  breakfast ;  and 
now  it  comes  out  that  she  was  ill  when  she  came,  with 
lifting  her  mother  about  (who  is  now  with  God)  when 
she  was  dying,  and  with  riding  up  from  Norfolk,  four 
days  and  nights  in  the  waggon.  She  got  advice  yester- 
day, and  took  something  which  has  made  her  bring  up  a 
quart  of  blood,  and  she  now  lies  in  her  bed,  a  dead  weight 
upon  our  humanity,  incapable  of  getting  up,  refusing  to 
go  into  an  hospital,  having  nobody  in  town  but  a  poor 
asthmatic  uncle  whose  sou  lately  married  a  drab  who  fills 
his  house,  and  there  is  nowhere  she  can  go,  and  she  seems 
to  have  made  up  her  mind  to  take  her  flight  to  heaven 
from  our  bed.  Oh  for  the  little  wheel -barrow  which 
trundled  the  hunchback  from  door  to  door  to  try  the 
various  charities  of  different  professions  of  mankind ! 
Here's  her  uncle  just  crawled  up.  He  is  far  liker  Death 
than  she.  Oh  the  Parish,  the  Parish,  the  hospital,  the 
infirmary,  the  charnel-house ! — these  are  places  meet  for 
such  guests,  not  our  quiet  mansion,  where  nothing  but 
affluent  plenty  and  literary  ease  should  abound. — Howard's 
House,  Howard's  House,  or  where  the  Paralytic  descended 
through  the  skylight  (what  a  God's  gift !)  to  get  at  our 
Saviour.  In  this  perplexity  such  topics  as  Spanish  papers 
and  Monkhouses  sink  into  comparative  ih  .significance. 
What  shall  we  do  1  If  she  died,  it  were  something : 
gladly  would  I  pay  the  coffin-maker,  and  the  bell-man  and 
searchers.  0.  L. 

To  Miss  Wordsworth,  Grasmere, 
near  Kendal,  Westmoreland. 


TO  HAZLITT.  265 

To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 
LETTER  CXLL]  Wednesday,  November  28,  1810. 

Dear  Hazlitt — I  sent  you  on  Saturday  a  Cobbett,  con- 
taining your  reply  to  the  Edinburgh  Review,  which  I 
thought  you  would  be  glad  to  receive  as  an  example  of 
attention  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Cobbett  to  insert  it  so 
speedily.  Did  you  get  it  ?  We  have  received  your  pig, 
and  return  you  thanks ;  it  will  be  dressed  in  due  form, 
with  appropriate  sauce,  this  day.  Mary  has  been  very 
ill  indeed  since  you  saw  her ;  that  is,  as  ill  as  she  can  be 
to  remain  at  home.  But  she  is  a  good  deal  better  now, 
owing  to  a  very  careful  regimen.  She  drinks  nothing 
but  water,  and  never  goes  out ;  she  does  not  even  go  to 
the  Captain's.  Her  indisposition  has  been  ever  since 
that  night  you  left  town ;  the  night  Miss  W[ordsworth] 

came.     Her   coming,  and   that   d d   Mrs.    Godwin 

coming  and  staying  so  late  that  night,  so  overset  her 
that  she  lay  broad  awake  all  that  night,  and  it  was  by 
a  miracle  that  she  escaped  a  very  bad  illness,  which  I 
thoroughly  expected.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  she 
shall  never  have  any  one  in  the  house  again  with  her,  and 
inat  no  one  shall  sleep  with  her,  not  even  for  a  night ; 
for  it  is  a  very  serious  thing  to  be  always  living  with  a 
kind  of  fever  upon  her ;  and  therefore  I  am  sure  you  will 
take  it  in  good  part  if  I  say  that  if  Mrs.  Hazlitt  comes 
to  town  at  any  time,  however  glad  we  shall  be  to  see  iier 
in  the  daytime,  I  cannot  ask  her  to  spend  a  night  under 
our  roof.  Some  decision  we  must  come  to,  for  the  harass- 
ing fever  that  we  have  both  been  in,  owing  to  Miss 
Wordsworth's  coming,  is  not  to  be  borne ;  and  I  would 
rather  be  dead  than  so  alive.  However,  at  present, 
owing  to  a  regimen  and  medicines  which  Tuthill  has 
given  her,  who  very  kindly  volunteer'd  the  care  of  her, 
she  is  a  great  deal  quieter,  though  too  much  harassed  by 
company,  who  cannot  or  will  not  see  how  late  hours  and 
society  teaze  her. 


266  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAME. 

Poor  Phillips  had  the  cup  dash'd  out  of  his  lips  as  it 
were.  He  had  every  prospect  of  the  situation,  when 

about'  ten  days  since  one  of  the  council  of  the  R 

Society  started  for  the  place  himself,  being  a  rich  merchant 
who  lately  failed,  and  he  will  certainly  be  elected  on 
Friday  next.  P.  is  very  sore  and  miserable  about  it. 

Coleridge  is  in  town,  or  at  least  at  Hammersmith. 
He  is  writing  or  going  to  write  in  the  Courier  against 
Cobbett,  and  in  favour  of  paper  money. 

No  news.  Remember  me  kindly  to  Sarah.  I  write 
from  the  office. 

Yours  ever,  C.  LAMB. 

I  just  open'd  it  to  say  the  pig,  upon  proof,  hath  turned 
out  as  good  as  I  predicted.  My  fauces  yet  retain  the 
sweet  porcine  odour.  I  find  you  have  received  the 
Cobbett.  I  think  your  paper  complete. 

Mrs.  Reynolds,  who  is  a  sage  woman,  approves  of  the 
Pig- 
Mr.  Hazlitt,  Winterslow, 
near  Salisbury,  Wilts. 


TO  HENRY  CRABB  ROBINSON. 

LETTER  CXLII.]  [1810.] 

Dear  R. — My  brother,  whom  you  have  met  at  my 
rooms  (a  plump,  good-looking  man  of  seven-and-forty) 
has  written  a  book  about  humanity,  which  I  transmit  to 
you  herewith.  Wilson,  the  publisher,  has  put  it  into  his 
head  that  you  can  get  it  reviewed  for  him.  I  dare  say 
it  is  not  in  the  scope  of  your  review ;  but  if  you  could 
put  it  in  any  likely  train,  he  would  rejoice.  For  alas  ! 
our  boasted  humanity  partakes  of  vanity.  As  it  is,  he 
teazes  me  to  death  with  choosing  to  suppose  that  I  could 
get  it  into  all  the  reviews  at  a  moment's  notice.  /// 
who  have  been  set  up  as  a  mark  for  them  to  throw  at, 


TO  HAZLITT.  267 

and  would  willingly  consign  them  all  to  Megaera's  snaky 
locks. 

But  here's  the  book,  and  don't  show  it  to  Mrs.  Collier, 
for  I  remember  she  makes  excellent  eel  soup,  and  the 
leading  points  of  the  book  are  directed  against  that  very 
process. 

Yours  truly,  C.  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

LETTER  CXLIII.  ]  October  2,  1811. 

Dear  Hazlitt — I  cannot  help  accompanying  my  sister's 
congratulations  to  Sarah  with  some  of  my  own  to  you  on 
this  happy  occasion  of  a  man  child  being  born. 

Delighted  fancy  already  sees  him  some  future  rich 
alderman  or  opulent  merchant,  painting  perhaps  a  little 
in  his  leisure  hours,  for  amusement,  like  the  late  H. 
Bunbury,  Esq. 

Pray,  are  the  Winterslow  estates  entailed?  I  am 
afraid  lest  the  young  dog  when  he  grows  up  should  cut 
down  the  woods,  and  leave  no  groves  for  widows  to  take 
their  lonesome  solace  in.  The  Wem  estate  of  course  can 
only  devolve  on  him  in  case  of  your  brother's  leaving  no 
male  issue. 

Well,  my  blessing  and  heaven's  be  upon  him,  and 
make  him  like  his  father,  with  something  a  better  temper, 
and  a  smoother  head  of  hair ;  and  then  all  the  men  and 
women  must  love  him. 

Martin  and  the  card-boys  join  in  congratulations. 
Love  to  Sarah.  Sorry  we  are  not  within  candle-shot. 

0.  LAMB. 

If  the  widow  be  assistant  on  this  notable  occasion, 
give  our  due  respects  and  kind  remembrances  to  her. 

Mr.  Hazlitt,  Winterslow, 
near  Sanun,  Wilts. 


268  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

"  Bis  dat  qui  dat  cito.' 
LETTEB  CXLIV.]  [1811.] 

I  hate  the  pedantry  of  expressing  that  in  another 
language  which  we  have  sufficient  terms  for  in  our  own. 
So  in  plain  English  I  very  much  wish  you  to  give  your 
vote  to-morrow  at  Clerkenwell,  instead  of  Saturday.  It 
would  clear  up  the  brows  of  my  favourite  candidate,  and 
stagger  the  hands  of  the  opposite  party.  It  commences 
at  nine.  How  easy,  as  you  come  from  Kensington  (ct 
propos,  how  is  your  excellent  family  T)  to  turn  down 
Bloomsbury,  through  Leather  Lane  (avoiding  Lay  Stall 
St.  for  the  disagreeableness  of  the  name) !  Why,  it 
brings  you  in  four  minutes  and  a  half  to  the  spot  re- 
nowned on  northern  milestones,  "where  Hicks'  Hall 
formerly  stood."  There  will  be  good  cheer  ready  for 
every  independent  freeholder ;  where  you  see  a  green  flag 
hang  out,  go  boldly  in,  call  for  ham,  or  beef,  or  what  you 
please,  and  a  mug  of  Meux's  best.  How  much  more 
gentleman-like  to  come  in  the  front  of  the  battle,  openly 
avowing  one's  sentiments,  than  to  lag  in  on  the  last  day, 
when  the  adversary  is  dejected,  spiritless,  laid  low ! 
Have  the  first  cut  at  them.  By  Saturday  you'll  cut  into 
the  mutton.  I'd  go  cheerfully  myself,  but  I  am  no 
freeholder  (Fuimus  Troes,  fuit  Ilium),  but  I  sold  it  for 
£50.  If  they'd  accept  a  copy-holder,  we  clerks  are 
naturally  copy-holders. 

By  the  way,  get  Mrs.  Hume,  or  that  agreeable  Amelia 
or  Caroline,  to  stick  a  bit  of  green  in  your  hat.  Nothing 
daunts  the  adversary  more  than  to  wear  the  colours  of 
your  party.  Stick  it  in  cockade-like.  It  has  a  martial 
and  by  no  means  disagreeable  effect. 

Go,  my  dear  freeholder,  and  if  any  chance  calls  you 
out  of  this  transitory  scene  earlier  than  expected,  the 
coroner  shall  sit  lightly  on  your  corpse.  He  shall  not 
too  anxiously  inquire  into  the  circumstances  of  blood 


TO  COLERIDGE.  26? 

found  upon  your  razor.      That   might  happen  to  any 
gentleman  in  shaving.     Nor  into  your  having  been  heard- 
to  express  a  contempt  of  life,  or  for  scolding  Louisa  for 
vhat  Julia  did,  and  other  trifling  incoherencies. 
Yours  sincerely,  0.  LAMB 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  CXLV.]  August  13,  1814. 

Dear  Resuscitate — There  comes  to  you  by  the  vehicle 
from  Lad  Lane  this  day  a  volume  of  German ;  what  it  is  I 
cannot  justly  say,  the  characters  of  those  northern  nations 
having  been  always  singularly  harsh  and  unpleasant  to 
me.  It  is  a  .contribution  of  Dr.  Southey's  towards  your 
wants,  and  you  would  have  had  it  sooner  but  for  an  odd 
accident.  I  wrote  for  it  three  days  ago,  and  the  Doctor, 
as  he  thought,  sent  it  me.  A  book  of  like  exterior  he 
did  send,  but  being  disclosed,  how  far  unlike !  It  was 
the  Well-bred  Scholar, — a  book  with  which  it  seems  the 
Doctor  laudably  fills  up  those  hours  which  he  can  steal 
from  his  medical  avocations.  Chesterfield,  Blair,  Beattie, 
portions  from  the  Life  of  Savage,  make  up  a  prettyish 
system  of  morality  and  the  belles-lettres,  which  Mr. 
Mylius,  a  schoolmaster,  has  properly  brought  together, 
and  calls  the  collection  by  the  denomination  above  men- 
tioned. The  Doctor  had  no  sooner  discovered  his  error 
than  he  dispatched  man  and  horse  to  rectify  the  mistake, 
and  with  a  pretty  kind  of  ingenuous  modesty  in  his  note, 
seemeth  to  deny  any  knowledge  of  the  Well-bred  Scholar; 
false  modesty  surely,  and  a  blush  misplaced :  for  what 
more  pleasing  than  the  consideration  of  professional 
austerity  thus  relaxing,  thus  improving !  But  so,  when 
a  child,  I  remember  blushing,  being  caught  on  my  knees 
to  my  Maker,  or  doing  otherwise  some  pious  and  praise- 
worthy action  :  now  I  rather  love  such  things  to  be  seen. 
Henry  Crabb  Robinson  is  out  upon  his  circuit,  and  hia 
books  are  inaccessible  without  his  leave  and  key.  He  is 


270  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

attending  the  Norfolk  Circuit, — a  short  term,  but  to  him, 
as  to  many  young  lawyers,  a  long  vacation,  sufficiently 
dreary.  I  thought  I  could  do  no  better  than  transmit  to 
him,  not  extracts,  but  your  very  letter  itself,  than  which  I 
think  I  never  read  anything  more  moving,  more  pathetic, 
or  more  conducive  to  the  purpose  of  persuasion.  The 
Crab  is  a  sour  Crab  if  it  does  not  sweeten  him.  I  think 
it  would  draw  another  third  volume  of  Dodsley  out  of 
me ;  but  you  say  you  don't  want  any  English  books. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  that's  as  well ;  one's  romantic  credulity 
is  for  ever  misleading  one  into  misplaced  acts  of  foolery. 
Crab  might  have  answered  by  this  time  :  his  juices  take 
a  long  time  supplying,  but  they'll  run  at  last — I  know 
they  will — pure  golden  pippin.  A  fearful  rumour  has 
since  reached  me  that  the  Crab  is  on  the  eve  of  setting 
out  for  France.  If  he  is  in  England  your  letter  will 
reach  him,  and  I  flatter  myself  a  touch  of  the  persuasive 
of  my  own,  which  accompanies  it,  will  not  be  thrown 
away;  if  it  be,  he  is  a  sloe,  and  no  true-hearted  Crab, 
and  there's  an  end.  For  that  life  of  the  German  conjuror 
which  you  speak  of,  Colerus  de  Vitd  Doctoris  vix-Intelli- 
gibilis,  I  perfectly  remember  the  last  evening  we  spent 
with  Mrs.  Morgan  and  Miss  Brent,  in  London  Street, — 
(by  that  token  we  had  raw  rabbits  for  supper,  and  Miss 
B.  prevailed  upon  me  to  take  a  glass  of  brandy  and 
water,  Avhich  is  not  my  habit), — I  perfectly  remember 
reading  portions  of  that  life  in  their  parlour,  and  I  think 
it  must  be  among  their  packages.  It  was  the  very  last 
evening  we  were  at  that  house.  What  is  gone  of  that 
frank-hearted  circle,  Morgan,  and  his  cos-lettuces?  He 
ate  walnuts  better  than  any  man  I  ever  knew.  Friend- 
ships in  these  parts  stagnate. 

•  »  •  •  • 

I  am  going  to  eat  turbot,  turtle,  venison,  marrow 
pudding, — cold  punch,  claret,  Madeira, — at  our  annual 
feast,  at  half-past  four  this  day.  They  keep  bothering 
me  (I'm  at  office),  and  my  ideas  are  confused.  Let  me 
know  if  I  can  be  of  any  service  as  to  books.  God  forbid 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  271 

the  Architectonican  should  be  sacrificed  to  a  foolish 
Bcruple  of  some  book  proprietor,  as  if  books  did  not 
belong  with  the  highest  proj/riety  to  those  that  under- 
stand 'em  best  0.  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 
LETIER  CXLVL]  August  14,  1814. 

Dear  Wordsworth — I  cannot  tell  you  how  pleased  I 
was  at  the  receipt  of  the  great  armful  of  poetry  which 
you  have  sent  me ;  and  to  get  it  before  the  rest  of  the 
world  too !  I  have  gone  quite  through  with  it,  and  was 
thinking  to  have  accomplished  that  pleasure  a  second 
time  before  I  wrote  to  thank  you,  but  M.  Burney  came 
in  the  night  (while  we  were  out)  and  made  holy  theft  of 
it,  but  we  expect  restitution  in  a  day  or  two.  It  is  the 
noblest  conversational  poem  I  ever  read — a  day  in  Heaven. 
The  part  (or  rather  main  body)  which  has  left  the  sweetest 
odour  on  my  memory  (a  bad  term  for  the  remains  of  an 
impression  so  recent)  is  the  Tales  of  the  Churchyard ;  the 
only  girl  among  seven  brethren,  born  out  of  due  time,  and 
not  duly  taken  away  again, — the  deaf  man  and  the  blind 
man ; — the  Jacobite  and  the  Hanoverian,  whom  anti- 
pathies reconcile;  the  Scarron -entry  of  the  rusticating 
parson  upon  his  solitude; — these  were  all  new  to  me 
too.  My  having  known  the  story  of  Margaret  (at  the 
beginning),  a  very  old  acquaintance,  even  as  long  back 
as  when  I  saw  you  first  at  Stowey,  did  not  make  her 
reappearance  less  fresh.  I  don't  know  what  to  pick  out 
of  this  best  of  books  upon  the  best  subjects  for  partial 
naming.  That  gorgeous  sunset  is  famous;  I  think  it 
must  have  been  the  identical  one  we  saw  on  Salisbury 
Plain  five  years  ago,  that  drew  Phillips  from  the  card- 
taWe,  where  he  had  sat  from  rise  of  that  luminary  to  its 
unequalled  set ;  but  neither  he  nor  I  had  gifted  eyes  to 
see  those  symbols  of  common  things  glorified,  such  as  the 
prophets  saw  them  in  that  sunset — the  wheel,  the  potter's 


272  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

clay,  the  wash-pot,  the  wine-press,  the  almond-tree  rod, 
the  baskets  of  figs,  the  fourfold  visaged  head,  the  throng 
and  Him  that  sat  thereon. 

One  feeling  I  was  particularly  struck  with,  as  what  I 
recognised  so  very  lately  at  Harrow  Church  on  entering  in 
it  after  a  hot  and  secular  day's  pleasure,  the  instantaneous 
coolness  and  calming,  almost  transforming  properties  of 
a  country  church  just  entered ;  a  certain  fragrance  which 
it  has,  either  from  its  holiness,  or  being  kept  shut  all  the 
week,  or  the  air  that  is  let  in  being  pure  country,  exactly 
what  you  have  reduced  into  words ;  but  I  am  feeling  that 
which  I  cannot  express.  Reading  your  lines  about  it 
fixed  me  for  a  time,  a  monument  in  Harrow  Church. 
Do  you  know  it  ?  with  its  fine  long  spire,  white  as  washed 
marble,  to  be  seen,  by  vantage  of  its  high  site,  as  far  as 
Salisbury  spire  itself  almost. 

I  shall  select  a  day  or  two,  very  shortly,  when  I  am 
coolest  in  brain,  to  have  a  steady  second  reading,  which 
I  feel  will  lead  to  many  more,  for  it  will  be  a  stock  book 
with  me  while  eyes  or  spectacles  shall  be  lent  me. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  noble  matter  about  mountain 
scenery,  yet  not  so  much  as  to  overpower  and  discounte- 
nance a  poor  Londoner  or  south-countryman  entirely, 
though  Mary  seems  to  have  felt  it  occasionally  a  little  too 
powerfully,  for  it  was  her  remark  during  reading  it,  that 
by  your  system  it  was  doubtful  whether  a  liver  in  towns 
had  a  soul  to  be  saved.  She  almost  trembled  for  that 
invisible  part  of  as  in  her. 

Save  for  a  late  excursion  to  Harrow,  and  a  day  or  two 
on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  this  Summer,  rural  images 
were  fast  fading  from  my  mind,  and  by  the  wise  provi- 
sion of  the  Regent,  all  that  was  country-fy'd  in  the 
Parks  is  all  but  obliterated.  The  very  colour  of  green 
is  vanished ;  the  whole  surface  of  Hyde  Park  is  dry 
crumbling  sand  (Arabia  Arenosa),  not  a  vestige  or  hint 
of  grass  ever  having  grown  there.  Booths  and  drinking- 
places  go  all  round  it  for  a  mile  and  half,  I  am  confident 
• — I  might  sav  two  miles  in  circuit.  The  stench  of 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  273 

liquors,  bad  tobacco,  dirty  people  and  provisions,  conquers 
the  air,  and  we  are  stifled  and  suffocated  in  Hyde  Park. 

Order  after  order  has  been  issued  by  Lord  Sidmouth 
in  the  name  of  the  Kegent  (acting  in  behalf  of  his  Royal 
father)  for  the  dispersion  of  the  varlets,  but  in  vain.  The 
vis  unita  of  all  the  publicans  in  London,  Westminster, 
Marylebone,  and  miles  round,  is  too  powerful  a  force  to 
put  down.  The  Regent  has  raised  a  phantom  which  he 
cannot  lay.  There  they'll  stay  probably  for  ever.  The 
whole  beauty  of  the  place  is  gone — that  lake-look  of  the 
Serpentine — it  has  got  foolish  ships  upon  it ;  but  some- 
thing whispers  to  have  confidence  in  Nature  and  its 
revival — 

At  the  coming  of  the  milder  day, 

These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

Meantime  I  confess  to  have  smoked  one  delicious  pipe  in 
one  of  the  cleanliest  and  goodliest  of  the  booths ;  a  tent 
rather — 

"Oh  call  it  not  a  booth!" 

erected  by  the  public  spirit  of  Watson,  who  keeps  the 
Adam  and  Eve  at  Pancras  (the  ale-houses  have  all 
emigrated,  with  their  train  of  bottles,  mugs,  corkscrews, 
waiters,  into  Hyde  Park — whole  ale-houses,  with  all  their 
ale  !),  in  company  with  some  of  the  Guards  that  had  been 
in  France,  and  a  fine  French  girl,  habited  like  a  princess 
of  banditti,  which  one  of  the  dogs  had  transported  from 
the  Garonne  to  the  Serpentine.  The  unusual  scene  in 
Hyde  Park,  by  candle-light,  in  open  air, — good  tobacco, 
bottled  stout, — made  it  look  like  an  interval  in  a  cam- 
paign, a  repose  after  battle.  I  almost  fancied  scars 
smarting,  and  was  ready  to  club  a  story  with  my  com- 
rades of  some  of  my  lying  deeds.  After  all,  the  fireworks 
were  splendid ;  the  rockets  in  clusters,  in  trees  and  all 
shapes,  spreading  about  like  young  stars  in  the  making, 
floundering  about  in  space  (like  unbroke  horses),  till  some 
of  Newton's  calculations  should  fix  them ;  but  then  they 
went  out.  Any  one  who  could  see  'em,  and  the  still  finer 
T 


274  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

showers  of  gloomy  rain-fire  that  fell  sulkily  and  angrily 
from  'em,  and  could  go  to  bed  without  dreaming  of  the 
last  day,  must  be  as  hardened  an  atheist  as  ... 

The  conclusion  of  this  epistle  getting  gloomy,  I  have 
chosen  this  part  to  desire  our  kindest  loves  to  Mrs. 
Wordsworth  and  to  Dorothea.  Will  none  of  you  ever  be 
in  London  again? 

Again  let  me  thank  you  for  your  present,  and  assure 
you  that  fireworks  and  triumphs  have  not  distracted  me 
from  receiving  a  calm  and  noble  enjoyment  from  it  (which 
I  trust  I  shall  often),  and  I  sincerely  congratulate  you 
on  its  appearance. 

With  kindest  remembrances  to  you  and  your  house- 
hold, we  remain,  yours  sincerely, 

C.  LAMB  and  Sister. 


To  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

LETTER  CXLVII.]  August  26,  1814. 

Let  the  hungry  soul  rejoice,  there  is  corn  in  Egypt. 
Whatever  thou  hast  been  told  to  the  contrary  by  design- 
ing friends,  who  perhaps  inquired  carelessly,  or  did  not 
inquire  at  all,  in  hope  of  saving  their  money,  there  is  a 
stock  of  "Remorse"  on  hand — enough,  as  Pople  con- 
jectures, for  seven  years'  consumption ;  judging  from 
experience  of  the  last  two  years.  Methiuks  it  makes  for 
the  benefit  of  sound  literature,  that  the  best  books  do 
not  always  go  off  best.  Inquire  in  seven  years'  time  for 
the  Kokebys  and  the  Laras,  and  where  shall  they  be 
found ? — fluttering  fragmentally  in  some  thread-paper; 
whereas  thy  Wallenstein  and  thy  Remorse  are  safe  on 
Longman's  or  Pople's  shelves,  as  in  some  Bodleian  ;  there 
they  shall  remain ;  no  need  of  a  chain  to  hold  them  fast 
— perhaps  for  ages — tall  copies — and  people  shan't  run 
about  hunting  for  them  as  in  old  Ezra's  shrievalty  they 
did  for  a  Bible,  almost  without  effect  till  the  great-great- 


TO  COLERIDGE.  275 

grand-niece  (by  the  mother's  side)  of  Jeremiah  or  Ezekiel 
(which  was  itl)  remembered  something  of  a  book,  with 
odd  reading  in  it,  that  used  to  lie  in  the  green  closet  in 
her  aunt  Judith's  bedchamber. 

Thy  caterer,  Price,  was  at  Hamburgh  when  last  Pople 
heard  of  him,  laying  up  for  thee  like  some  miserly  old 
father  for  his  generous-hearted  son  to  squander. 

Mr.  Charles  Aders,  whose  books  also  pant  for  that  free 
circulation  which  thy  custody  is  sure  to  give  them,  is  to 
be  heard  of  at  his  kinsmen,  Messrs.  Jameson  and  Aders, 
No.  7,  Laurence  Pountney  Lane,  London,  according  to 
the  information  which  Crabius  with  his  parting  breath 
left  me.  Crabius  is  gone  to  Paris.  I  prophesy  he  and 
the  Parisians  will  part  with  mutual  contempt.  His  head 
has  a  twist  Allemagne,  like  thine,  dear  mystic. 

I  have  been  reading  Madame  Stael  on  Germany :  an 
impudent  clever  woman.  But  if  Faust  be  no  better  than 
in  her  abstract  of  it,  I  counsel  thee  to  let  it  alone.  How 
canst  thou  translate  the  language  of  cat-monkeys?  Fie 
on  such  fantasies !  But  I  will  not  forget  to  look  for 
Produs.  It  is  a  kind  of  book  which,  when  we  meet 
with  it,  we  shut  up  faster  than  we  opened  it  Yet  I 
have  some  bastard  kind  of  recollection  that  somewhere, 
some  time  ago,  upon  some  stall  or  other,  I  saw  it.  It 
was  either  that  or  Plotinw,  or  Saint  Augustine's  City  of 
God.  So  little  do  some  folks  value,  what  to  others,  sc. 
to  you,  "  well  used,"  had  been  the  "  Pledge  of  Immor- 
tality." Bishop  Bruno  I  never  touched  upon.  Stuffing 
too  good  for  the  brains  of  such  a  "  Hare "  as  thou  de- 
scribest.  May  it  burst  his  pericranium,  as  the  gobbets  of 
fat  and  turpentine  (a  nasty  thought  of  the  seer)  did  that 
old  dragon  in  the  Apocrypha !  May  he  go  mad  in  trying 
to  understand  his  author  !  May  he  lend  the  third  volume 
of  him  before  he  has  quite  translated  the  second,  to  a 
friend  who  shall  lose  it,  and  so  spoil  the  publication,  and 
may  his  friend  find  it  and  send  it  him  just  as  thou  or 
some  such  less  dilatory  spirit  shall  have  announced  the 
whole  for  the  press.  So  I  think  I  have  answered  all  thy 


276  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

questions  except  about  Morgan's  cos -lettuce.  The  first 
personal  peculiarity  I  ever  observed  of  him  (all  worthy 
souls  are  subject  to  'em)  was  a  particular  kind  of  rabbit- 
like  delight  in  munching  salads  with  oil  without  vinegar 
after  dinner — a  steady  contemplative  browsing  on  them 
— didst  never  take  note  of  it  1  Canst  think  of  any  other 
queries  in  the  solution  of  which  I  can  give  thee  satisfac- 
tion 1  Do  you  want  any  books  that  I  can  procure  for 
you  1  Old  Jimmy  Boyer  is  dead  at  last.  Trollope  has 
got  his  living,  worth  £1000  a  year  net.  See,  thou 
sluggard,  thou  heretic-sluggard,  what  mightest  thou  not 
have  arrived  at !  Lay  thy  animosity  against  Jimmy  in 
the  grave.  Do  not  entail  it  on  thy  posterity. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTER  CXLVIIL]  August  29,  1814. 

My  dear  W. — I  have  scarce  time  or  quiet  to  explain 
my  present  situation,  how  unquiet  and  distracted  it  is, 
owing  to  the  absence  of  some  of  my  compeers,  and  to  the 
deficient  state  of  payments  at  E.  I.  H.,  owing  to  bad 
peace  speculations  in  the  calico  market.  (I  write  this  to 
W.  W.,  Esq.,  Collector  of  Stamp  Duties  for  the  Conjoint 
Northern  Counties,  not  to  W.  W.,  Poet.)  I  go  back, 
and  have  for  many  days  past,  to  evening  work,  generally 
at  the  rate  of  nine  hours  a  day.  The  nature  of  my  work, 
too,  puzzling  and  hurrying,  has  so  shaken  my  spirits,  that 
my  sleep  is  nothing  but  a  succession  of  dreams  of  business 
I  cannot  do,  of  assistants  that  give  me  no  assistance,  of 
terrible  responsibilities.  I  reclaimed  your  book,  which 
Hazlitt  has  uncivilly  kept,  only  two  days  ago,  and  have 
made  shift  to  read  it  again  with  shattered  brain.  It  does 
not  lose — rather  some  parts  have  come  out  with  a  promi- 
nence I  did  not  perceive  before — but  such  was  my  aching 
head  yesterday  (Sunday),  that  the  book  was  like  a  mount- 
ain landscape  to  one  that  should  walk  on  the  edge  of  a 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  277 

precipice ;  I  perceive  beauty  dizzily.  Now,  what  I  would 
say  is,  that  I  see  no  prospect  of  a  quiet  half-day,  or  hour 
even,  till  this  week  and  the  next  are  past.  I  then  hope 
to  get  four  weeks'  absence,  and  if  then  is  time  enough  to 
begin,  I  will  most  gladly  do  what  is  required,  though  I 
feel  my  inability,  for  my  brain  is  always  desultory,  and 
snatches  off  hints  from  things,  but  can  seldom  follow  a 
"  work "  methodically.  But  that  shall  be  no  excuse. 
What  I  beg  you  to  do  is,  to  let  me  know  from  Southey, 
if  that  will  be  time  enough  for  the  Quarterly,  i.e.  suppose 
it  done  in  three  weeks  from  this  date  (19th  Sept.) :  if 
not,  it  is  my  bounden  duty  to  express  my  regret,  and 
decline  it.  Mary  thanks  you,  and  feels  highly  grateful 
for  your  "  Patent  of  Nobility,"  and  acknowledges  the 
author  of  the  Excursion  as  the  legitimate  Fountain  of 
Honour.  We  both  agree  that,  to  our  feeling,  Ellen  is 
best  as  she  is.  To  us  there  would  have  been  something 
repugnant  in  her  challenging  her  Penance  as  a  Dowry : 
the  fact  is  explicable  ;  but  how  few  are  those  to  whom  it 
would  have  been  rendered  explicit !  The  unlucky  reason 
of  the  detention  of  the  Excursion  was  Hazlitt  and  we 
having  a  misunderstanding.  He  blowed  us  up  about  six 
mouths  ago,  since  which  the  union  hath  snapt ;  but  M. 
Burney  borrowed  it  for  him,  and  after  reiterated  messages 
I  only  got  it  on  Friday.  His  remarks  had  some  vigour 
in  them  ;  particularly  something  about  an  old  ruin  being 
too  modern  for  your  Primeval  Nature  and  about  a  lichen. 
I  forget  the  passage,  but  the  whole  wore  a  slovenly  air  of 
despatch.  That  objection  which  M.  Burney  had  imbibed 
from  him  about  Voltaire  I  explained  to  M.  B.  (or  tried) 
exactly  on  your  principle  of  its  being  a  characteristic 
speech.  That  it  was  no  settled  comparative  estimate  of 
Voltaire  with  any  of  his  own  tribe  of  buffoons — no  injus- 
tice, even  if  you  spoke  it,  for  I  dared  say  you  never  could 
relish  Candide.  I  know  I  tried  to  get  through  it  about 
a  twelvemonth  since,  and  couldn't  for  the  dulness.  Now 
I  think  I  have  a  wider  range  in  buffoonery  than  you. 
Too  much  toleration  perhaps. 


278  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

I  finish  this  after  a  raw  ill-baked  dinner  fast  gobbled 
up  to  set  me  off  to  office  again,  after  working  there  till 
near  four.  Oh  how  I  wish  I  were  a  rich  man  !  even 
though  I  were  squeezed  camel-fashion  at  getting  through 
that  needle's  eye  that  is  spoken  of  in  the  Written  Word. 
Apropos;  are  you  a  Christian?  or  is  it  the  Pedler  and 
the  Priest  that  are  ? 

I  find  I  miscalled  that  celestial  splendour  of  the  mist 
going  off,  a  sunset.  That  only  shows  my  inaccuracy  of 
head. 

Do,  pray,  indulge  me  by  writing  an  answer  to  the 
point  of  time  mentioned  above,  or  let  Southey.  I  am 
ashamed  to  go  bargaining  in  this  way,  but  indeed  I  have 
no  time  I  can  reckon  on  till  the  first  week  in  October. 
God  send  I  may  not  be  disappointed  in  that !  Coleridge 
swore  in  a  letter  to  me  he  would  review  the  Excursion 
in  the  Quarterly.  Therefore,  though  that  shall  not  stop 
me,  yet  if  I  can  do  anything  when  done,  I  must  know  of 
him  if  he  has  anything  ready,  or  I  shall  fill  the  world 
with  loud  exclaims. 

I  keep  writing  on,  knowing  the  postage  is  no  more  for 
much  writing,  else  so  fagged  and  dispirited  I  am  with 
cursed  India  House  work,  I  scarce  know  what  I  do.  My 
left  arm  reposes  on  the  Excursion.  I  feel  what  it  would 
be  in  quiet.  It  is  now  a  sealed  book.  C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  CXLIX.]  1814. 

Dear  W. — Your  experience  about  tailors  seems  to  be 
in  point  blank  opposition  to  Burton,  as  much  as  the 
author  of  the  Excursion  does,  toto  ccelo,  differ  in  his 
notion  of  a  country  life  from  the  picture  which  W.  H. 
has  exhibited  of  the  same.  But,  with  a  little  explanation, 
you  and  B.  may  be  reconciled.  It  is  evident  that  he  con- 
fined his  observations  to  the  genuine  native  London 
tailor.  What  freaks  tailor- nature  may  take  in  the 
country  is  not  for  him  to  give  account  of  And  certainly 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  279 

Borne  of  the  freaks  recorded  do  give  an  idea  of  the  persons 
in  question  being  beside  themselves,  rather  than  in  har- 
mony with  the  common,  moderate,  self-enjoyment  of  the 
rest  of  mankind.  A  flying  tailor,  I  venture  to  say,  is  no 
more  in  rerum  naturd  than  a  flying  horse  or  a  gryphon. 
His  wheeling  his  airy  flight  from  the  precipice  you  men- 
tion had  a  parallel  in  the  melancholy  Jew  who  toppled 
from  the  monument.  Were  his  limbs  ever  found  1  Then, 
the  man  who  cures  diseases  by  words  is  evidently  an 
inspired  tailor.  Burton  never  affirmed  that  the  art  of 
sewing  disqualified  the  practiser  of  it  from  being  a  fit 
organ  for  supernatural  revelation.  He  never  enters  into 
such  subjects.  'Tis  the  common,  uninspired  tailor  which 
he  speaks  of.  Again,  the  person  who  makes  his  smiles 
to  be  Jieard  is  evidently  a  man  under  possession — a 
demoniac  tailor.  A  greater  hell  than  his  own  must  have 
a  hand  in  this.  I  am  not  certain  that  the  cause  which 
you  advocate  has  much  reason  for  triumph.  You  seem 
to  me  to  substitute  light-headedness  for  light-heartedness 
by  a  trick,  or  not  to  know  the  difference.  I  confess,  a 
grinning  tailor  would  shock  me.  Enough  of  tailors  ! 

The  '"scapes"  of  the  great  god  Pan,  who  appearea 
among  your  mountains  some  dozen  years  since,  and  his 
narrow  chance  of  being  submerged  by  the  swains,  afforded 
me  much  pleasure.  I  can  conceive  the  water-nymphs 
pulling  for  him.  He  would  have  been  another  Hylas — 
W.  Hylas.  In  a  mad  letter  which  Capel  Lofft  wrote  to 
M\onthly\  M\agazine\  Philips  (now  Sir  Richard),  I 
remember  his  noticing  a  metaphysical  article  of  Pan, 
signed  H.,  and  adding,  "  I  take  your  correspondent  to  be 
the  same  with  Hylas."  Hylas  had  put  forth  a  pastoral 
just  before.  How  near  the  unfounded  conjecture  of  the 
certainly  inspired  Lofft  (unfounded  as  we  thought  it)  was 
to  being  realised!  I  can  conceive  him  being  "good  to 
all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood."  One  J.  Scott  (I 
know  no  more)  is  editor  of  the  Champion.  Where  is 
Coleridge  ? 

That  Review  you  speak  of,  I  am  only  sorry  it  did  not 


280  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

appear  last  month.  The  circumstances  of  haste  and 
peculiar  bad  spirits  under  which  it  was  written  would 
have  excused  its  slightness  and  inadeqiiacy,  the  full  load 
of  which  I  shall  suffer  from  its  lying  by  so  long,  as  it 
will  seem  to  have  done,  from  its  postponement.  I 
write  with  great  difficulty,  and  can  scarce  command  my 
own  resolution  to  sit  at  writing  an  hour  together.  I  am 
a  poor  creature,  but  I  am  leaving  off  gin.  I  hope  you 
will  see  good-will  in  the  thing.  I  had  a  difficulty  to  per- 
form not  to  make  it  all  panegyric ;  I  have  attempted  to 
personate  a  mere  stranger  to  you ;  perhaps  with  too  much 
strangeness.  But  you  must  bear  that  in  mind  when  you 
read  it,  and  not  think  that  I  am,  in  mind,  distant  from 
you  or  your  poem,  but  that  both  are  close  to  me,  among 
the  nearest  of  persons  and  things.  I  do  but  act  the 
stranger  in  the  Review.  Then,  I  was  puzzled  about 
extracts,  and  determined  upon  not  giving  one  that  had 
been  in  the  Examiner;  for  extracts  repeated  give  an 
idea  that  there  is  a  meagre  allowance  of  good  things. 
By  this  way,  I  deprived  myself  of  Sir  Alfred  Irthiny, 
and  the  reflections  that  conclude  his  story,  which  are  the 
flower  of  the  poem.  Hazlitt  had  given  the  reflections 
before  me.  Then  it  is  the  first  review  I  ever  did,  and  I 
did  not  know  how  long  I  might  make  it.  But  it  must 
speak  for  itself,  if  Gifford  and  his  crew  do  not  put  words 
in  its  mouth,  which  I  expect.  Farewell.  Love  to  all. 
Mary  keeps  very  bad.  C.  LAMB. 


LETTER  CL.]  1814. 

Dear  Wordsworth — I  told  you  my  Review  was  a  very 
imperfect  one.  But  what  you  will  see  in  the  Quarterly 
is  a  spurious  one,  which  Mr.  Baviad  Gifford  has  palmed 
apon  it  for  mine.  I  never  felt  more  vexed  in  my  life 
than  when  I  read  it.  I  cannot  give  you  an  idea  of  what 
he  has  done  to  it,  out  of  spite  at  me,  because  he  once 
suffered  me  to  be  called  a  lunatic  in  his  Review.  The 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  281 

language  he  has  altered  throughout.  Whatever  inade- 
quateness  it  had  to  its  subject,  it  was,  in  point  of  com- 
position, the  prettiest  piece  of  prose  I  ever  writ :  and  so 
my  sister  (to  whom  alone  I  read  the  MS.)  said.  That 
charm,  if  it  had  any,  is  all  gone :  more  than  a  third  of 
the  substance  is  cut  away,  and  that  not  all  from  one 
place,  but  passim,  so  as  to  make  utter  nonsense.  Every 
warm  expression  is  changed  for  a  nasty  cold  one. 

I  have  not  the  cursed  alteration  by  me ;  I  shall  never 
look  at  it  again ;  but  for  a  specimen,  I  remember  I  had 
said  the  poet  of  the  Excursion  "  walks  through  common 
forests  as  through  some  Dodona  or  enchanted  wood,  and 
every  casual  bird  that  flits  upon  the  boughs,  like  that 
miraculous  one  in  Tasso,  but  in  language  more  piercing 
than  any  articulate  sounds,  reveals  to  him  far  higher 
love-lays."  It  is  now  (besides  half-a-dozen  alterations  in 
the  same  half-dozen  lines)  "  but  in  language  more  intelli- 
gent reveals  to  him ;" — that  is  one  I  remember. 

But  that  would  have  been  little,  putting  his  damn'd 
shoemaker  phraseology  (for  he  was  a  shoemaker)  instead 
of  mine,  which  has  been  tinctured  with  better  authors 
than  his  ignorance  can  comprehend ; — for  I  reckon  myself 
a  dab  at  prose  ; — verse  I  leave  to  my  betters  :  God  help 
them,  if  they  are  to  be  so  reviewed  by  friend  and  foe  as 
you  have  been  this  quarter  !  I  have  read  "  It  won't  do." 
But  worse  than  altering  words ;  he  has  kept  a  few  mem- 
bers only  of  the  part  I  had  done  best,  which  was  to 
explain  all  I  could  of  your  "  Scheme  of  Harmonies,"  as  I 
had  ventured  to  call  it,  between  the  external  universe 
and  what  within  us  answers  to  it.  To  do  this  I  had 
accumulated  a  good  many  short  passages,  rising  in  length 
to  the  end,  weaving  in  the  extracts  arf  if  they  came  in  as 
a  part  of  the  text  naturally,  not  intruding  them  as  speci- 
mens. Of  this  part  a  little  is  left,  but  so  as,  without 
conjuration,  no  man  could  tell  what  I  was  driving  at.  A 
proof  of  it  you  may  see  (though  not  judge  of  the  whole 
of  the  injustice)  by  these  words.  I  had  spoken  some- 
thing about  "natural  methodism;"  and  after  follows, 


282  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

"and  tlierefore  the  tale  of  Margaret  should  have  been 
postponed  "  (I  forget  my  words,  or  his  words) ;  now  the 
reasons  for  postponing  it  are  as  deducible  from  what  goes 
before  as  they  are  from  the  104th  Psalm.  The  passage 
whence  I  deduced  it  has  vanished,  but  clapping  a  colon 
before  a  therefore  is  always  reason  enough  for  Mr.  Baviad 
Gifford  to  allow  to  a  reviewer  that  is  not  himself.  I 
assure  you  my  complaints  are  well  founded.  I  know  how 
sore  a  word  altered  makes  one ;  but,  indeed,  of  this 
review  the  whole  complexion  is  gone.  I  regret  only  that 
I  did  not  keep  a  copy.  I  am  sure  you  would  have  been 
pleased  with  it,  because  I  have  been  feeding  my  fancy 
for  some  months  with  the  notion  of  pleasing  you.  Its 
imperfection  or  inaclequateness  in  size  and  method  I 
knew ;  but  for  the  uniting  part  of  it  I  was  fully  satis- 
fied ;  I  hoped  it  would  make  more  than  atonement.  Ten 
or  twelve  distinct  passages  come  to  my  mind,  which  are 
gone ;  and  what  is  left  is,  of  course,  the  worse  for  their 
having  been  there;  the  eyes  are  pulled  out,  and  the 
bleeding  sockets  are  left. 

I  read  it  at  Arch's  shop  with  my  face  burning  with 
vexation  secretly,  with  just  such  a  feeling  as  if  it  had 
been  a  review  written  against  myself,  making  false  quota- 
tions from  me.  But  I  am  ashamed  to  say  so  much  about 
a  short  piece.  How  are  you  served  !  and  the  labours  of 
years  turned  into  contempt  by  scoundrels  ! 

But  I  could  not  but  protest  against  your  taking  that 
thing  as  mine.  Every  pretty  expression  (I  know  there 
were  many),  every  warm  expression  (there  was  nothing 
else),  is  vulgarised  and  frozen.  But  if  they  catch  me  in 
their  camps  again,  let  them  spitehcock  me !  They  had  a 
right  to  do  it,  as  no  name  appears  to  it ;  and  Mr.  Shoe- 
maker Gifford,  I  suppose,  never  waived  a  right  he  had 
since  he  commenced  author.  God  confound  him  and  al/ 
caitiffs !  C.  L. 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  283 

LETTER  CLL]  [1815.] 

Dear  Wordsworth — You  have  made  me  very  proud 
with  your  successive  book  presents.  I  have  been  care- 
fully through  the  two  volumes,  to  see  that  nothing  was 
omitted  which  used  to  be  there.  I  think  I  miss  nothing 
but  a  character  in  the  antithetic  manner,  which  I  do  not 
know  why  you  left  out, — the  moral  to  the  boys  building 
the  giant,  the  omission  whereof  leaves  it,  in  my  mind, 
less  complete, — and  one  admirable  line  gone  (or  something 
come  instead  of  it),  "the  stone-chat,  and  the  glancing 
sand -piper,"  which  was  a  line  quite  alive.  I  demand 
these  at  your  hand.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  not  sacri- 
ficed a  verse  to  those  scoundrels.  I  would  not  have  had 
you  offer  up  the  poorest  rag  that  lingered  upon  the  stript 
shoulders  of  little  Alice  Fell,  to  have  atoned  all  their 
malice ;  I  would  not  have  given  'em  a  red  cloak  to  save 
their  souls.  I  am  afraid  lest  that  substitution  of  a  shell 
(a  flat  falsification  of  the  history)  for  the  household 
implement,  as  it  stood  at  first,  was  a  kind  of  tub  thrown 
out  to  the  beast,  or  rather  thrown  out  for  him.  The  tub 
was  a  good  honest  tub  in  its  place,  and  nothing  could 
fairly  be  said  against  it.  You  say  you  made  the  altera- 
tion for  the  "  friendly  reader,"  but  the  "  malicious  "  will 
take  it  to  himself.  Damn  'em,  if  you  give  'em  an  inch, 
etc.  The  Preface  is  noble,  and  such  as  you  should 
write.  I  wish  I  could  set  my  name  to  it,  Imprimatur, 
— but  you  have  set  it  there  yourself,  and  I  thank  you. 
I  would  rather  be  a  doorkeeper  in  your  margin,  than  have 
their  proudest  text  swelling  with  my  eulogies.  The 
poems  in  the  volumes  which  are  new  to  me  are  so 
much  in  the  old  tone  that  I  hardly  received  them  as 
novelties.  Of  those  of  which  I  had  no  previous  know- 
ledge, the  "  Four  Yew  Trees,"  and  the  mysterious  com- 
pany which  you  have  assembled  there,  most  struck  me — 
"Death  the  Skeleton  and  Time  the  Shadow."  It  is  a 
eight  not  for  every  youthful  poet  to  dream  of;  it  is  one 
of  the  last  results  he  must  have  gone  thinking  on  foi 


284  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

years  for.  "  Laodanria  "  is  a  very  original  poem  ;  I  mean 
original  with  reference  to  your  own  manner.  You  have 
nothing  like  it.  I  should  have  seen  it  in  a  strange 
place,  and  greatly  admired  it,  but  not  suspected  its 
derivation. 

Let  me  in  this  place,  for  I  have  writ  you  several 
letters  naming  it,  mention  that  my  brother,  who  is  a 
picture-collector,  has  picked  up  an  undoubtable  picture  of 
Milton.  He  gave  a  few  shillings  for  it,  and  could  get 
no  history  with  it,  but  that  some  old  lady  bad  had  it  for 
a  great  many  years.  Its  age  is  ascertain  able  from  the 
state  of  the  canvas,  and  you  need  only  see  it  to  be  sure 
that  it  is  the  original  of  the  heads  in  the  Tonson  editions, 
with  which  we  are  all  so  well  familiar.  Since  I  saw  you 
I  have  had  a  treat  in  the  reading  way,  which  comes  not 
every  day,  the  Latin  Poems  of  V.  Bourne,  which  were 
quite  new  to  me.  What  a  heart  that  man  had  !  all  laid 
out  upon  town  schemes,  a  proper  counterpoise  to  some 
people's  rural  extravaganzas.  Why  I  mention  him  is, 
that  your  "  Power  of  Music "  reminded  me  of  his  poem 
of  "The  Ballad  Singer  in  the  Seven  Dials."  Do  you 
remember  his  epigram  on  the  old  woman  who  taught 
Newton  the  ABC?  which,  after  all,  he  says,  he  hesi- 
tates not  to  call  Newton's  "  Principia."  I  was  lately 
fatiguing  myself  with  going  through  a  volume  of  fine 
words  by  Lord  Thurlow;  excellent  words;  and  if  the 
heart  could  live  by  words  alone,  it  could  desire  no  better 
regales ;  but  what  an  aching  vacuum  of  matter  !  I  don't 
stick  at  the  madness  of  it,  for  that  is  only  a  consequence 
of  shutting  his  eyes  and  thinking  he  is  in  the  age  of  the 
old  Elizabeth  poets.  From  thence  I  turned  to  Bourne. 
What  a  sweet,  unpretending,  pretty-mannered,  matter-ful 
creature  !  sucking  from  every  flower,  making  a  flower  of 
everything,  his  diction  all  Latin,  and  his  thoughts  all 
English.  Bless  him  !  Latin  wasn't  good  enough  for 
him.  Why  wasn't  he  content  with  the  language  which 
Gay  and  Prior  wrote  in  1 

I  am  almost  sorry  that  you  printed  extracts  from 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  285 

those  first  poems,  or  "that  you  did  not  print  them  at 
length.  They  do  not  read  to  me  as  they  do  altogether. 
Besides,  they  have  diminished  the  value  of  the  original, 
which  I  possess  as  a  curiosity.  I  have  hitherto  kept 
them  distinct  in  my  mind  as  referring  to  a  particular 
period  of  your  life.  All  the  rest  of  your  poems  are  so 
much  of  a  piece,  they  might  have  been  written  in  the 
same  week ;  these  decidedly  speak  of  an  earlier  period. 
They  tell  more  of  what  you  had  been  reading.  We  were 
glad  to  see  the  poems  "  by  a  female  friend."  The  one  of 
the  Wind  is  masterly,  but  not  new  to  us.  Being  only 
three,  perhaps  you  might  have  clapt  a  D.  at  the  corner, 
and  let  it  have  past  as  a  printer's  mark  to  the  uninitiated, 
as  a  delightful  hint  to  the  better  instructed.  As  it  is, 
expect  a  formal  criticism  on  the  poems  of  your  female 
friend,  and  she  must  expect  it.  I  should  have  written 
before,  but  I  am  cruelly  engaged,  and  like  to  be.  On 
Friday  I  was  at  office  from  ten  in  the  morning  (two  hours 
dinner  except)  to  eleven  at  night ;  last  night  till  nine. 
My  business  and  office  business  in  general  have  increased 
so;  I  don't  mean  I  am  there  every  night,  but  I  must 
expect  a  great  deal  of  it.  I  never  leave  till  four,  and  do 
not  keep  a  holiday  now  once  in  ten  times,  where  I  used 
to  keep  all  red-letter  days,  and  some  five  days  besides, 
which  I  used  to  dub  Nature's  holidays.  I  have  had  my 
day.  I  had  formerly  little  to  do.  So  of  the  little  that 
is  left  of  life,  I  may  reckon  two-thirds  as  dead,  for  time 
that  a  man  may  call  his  own  is  his  life ;  and  hard  work 
and  thinking  about  it  taints  even  the  leisure  hours, — stains 
Sunday  with  work -day  contemplations.  This  is  Sunday : 
and  the  headache  I  have  is  part  late  hours  at  work  the 
two  preceding  nights,  and  part  later  hours  over  a  con- 
soling pipe  afterwards.  But  I  find  stupid  acquiescence 
coming  over  me.  I  bend  to  the  yoke,  and  it  is  almost 
with  me  and  my  household  as  with  the  man  and  his 
eonsort — 

"  To  them  each  evening  had  its  glittering  star, 
And  every  Sabbath  Day  its  golden  sun"— 


286  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

to  such  straits  am  I  driven  for  the  life  of  life,  Time ! 
0  that  from  that  superfluity  of  holiday  leisure  my  youth 
wasted,  "  Age  might  but  take  some  hours  youth  wanted 
not !"  N.B. — I  have  left  off  spirituous  liquors  for  four 
or  more  months,  with  a  moral  certainty  of  its  lasting. 
Farewell,  dear  Wordsworth  ! 

0  happy  Paris,  seat  of  idleness  and  pleasure !  from 
some  returned  English  I  hear  that  not  such  a  thing  as  a 
counting-house  is  to  be  seen  in  her  streets, — scarce  a 
desk.  Earthquakes  swallow  up  this  mercantile  city  and 
its  "gripple  merchants,"  as  Drayton  hath  it — "born  to 
be  the  curse  of  this  brave  isle  !"  I  invoke  this,  not  on 
account  of  any  parsimonious  habits  the  mercantile  interest 
may  have,  but,  to  confess  truth,  because  I  am  not  fit  for 
an  office. 

Farewell,  in  haste,  from  a  head  that  is  too  ill  to 
methodise,  a  stomach  too  weak  to  digest,  and  all  out  of 
tune.  Better  harmonies  await  you !  0.  LAMB. 

LETTER  CLIL] 

Excuse  this  maddish  letter :  I  am  too  tired  to  write 
in  forind. 

1815. 

Dear  Wordsworth — The  more  I  read  of  your  last  two 
volumes,  the  more  I  feel  it  necessary  to  make  my  acknow- 
ledgments for  them  in  more  than  one  short  letter.  The 
"  Night  Piece,"  to  which  you  refer  me,  I  meant  fully  to 
have  noticed ;  but,  the  fact  is,  I  come  so  fluttering  and 
languid  from  business,  tired  with  thoughts  of  it,  fright- 
ened with  the  fears  of  it,  that  when  I  get  a  few  minutes 
to  sit  down  to  scribble  (an  action  of  the  hand  now  seldom 
natural  to  me — I  mean  voluntary  pen'- work)  I  lose  all 
presential  memory  of  what  I  had  intended  to  say,  and 
say  what  I  can,  talk  about  Vincent  Bourne,  or  any  casual 
image,  instead  of  that  which  I  had  meditated  (by  the 
way,  I  must  look  out  V.  B.  for  you).  So  I  meant  to 
mention  "  Yarrow  Visited,"  with  that  stanza,  "  But  thou 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  287 

that  didst  appear  so  fair;"  than  which  I  think  no 
lovelier  stanza  can  be  found  in  the  wide  world  of  poetry ; 
— yet  the  poem,  on  the  whole,  seems  condemned  to  leave 
behind  it  a  melancholy  of  imperfect  satisfaction,  as  if  you 
had  wronged  the  feeling  with  which,  in  what  preceded 
it,  you  had  resolved  never  to  visit  it,  and  as  if  the  Muse 
had  determined,  in  the  most  delicate  manner,  to  make 
you,  and  scarce  make  you,  feel  it.  Else,  it  is  far  superior 
to  the  other,  which  has  but  one  exquisite  verse  in  it,  the 
last  but  one,  or  the  last  two :  this  is  all  fine,  except 
perhaps  that  that  of  "  studious  ease  and  generous  cares  " 
has  a  little -tinge  of  the  less  romantic  about  it.  "The 
Fanner  of  Tilsbury  Vale  "  is  a  charming  counterpart  to 
"  Poor  Susan,"  with  the  addition  of  that  delicacy  towards 
aberrations  from  the  strict  path,  which  is  so  fine  in  the 
"Old  Thief  and  the  Boy  by  his  side,"  which  always 
brings  water  into  my  eyes.  Perhaps  it  is  the  worse  for 
being  a  repetition ;  "  Susan  "  stood  for  the  representative 
of  poor  Rus  in  Urbe.  There  was  quite  enough  to  stamp 
the  moral  of  the  thing  never  to  be  forgotten  ;  "  bright 
volumes  of  vapour,"  etc.  The  last  verse  of  Susan  was 
to  be  got  rid  of,  at  all  events.  It  threw  a  kind  of 
dubiety  upon  Susan's  moral  conduct.  Susan  is  a  servant 
maid.  I  see  her  trundling  her  mop,  and  contemplating 
the  whirling  phenomenon  through  blurred  optics ;  but  to 
term  her  "  a  poor  outcast "  seems  as  much  as  to  say  that 
poor  Susan  was  no  better  than  she  should  be,  which 
I  trust  was  not  what  you  meant  to  express.  Robin 
Goodfellow  supports  himself  without  that  stick  of  a  moral 
which  you  have  thrown  away  ;  but  how  I  can  be  brought 
in  felo  de  omittendo  for  that  ending  to  the  Boy-buildera 
is  a  mystery.  I  can't  say  positively  now, — I  only  know 
that  no  line  oftener  or  readier  occurs  than  that  "  Light- 
hearted  boys,  I  will  build  up  a  Giant  with  you."  It 
comes  naturally,  with  a  warm  holiday,  and  the  freshness 
of  the  blood.  It  is  a  perfect  summer  amulet,  that  I  tie 
round  my  legs  to  quicken  their  motion  when  I  go  out  a 
maying.  (N.B.)  I  don't  often  go  out  a  may\s\g ; — must 


288  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

is  the  tense  with  me  now.  Do  you  take  the  pun  1  Young 
Romilly  is  divine ;  the  reasons  of  his  mother's  grief  being 
remediless.  I  never  saw  parental  love  carried  up  so 
high,  towering  above  the  other  loves.  Shakspeare  had 
done  something  for  the  filial,  in  Cordelia,  and,  by  implica- 
tion, for  the  fatherly  too,  in  Lear's  resentment ;  he  left 
it  for  you  to  explore  the  depths  of  the  maternal  heart. 
I  get  stupid,  and  flat,  and  flattering.  What's  the  use  of 
telling  you  what  good  things  you  have  written,  or — I 
hope  I  may  add — that  I  know  them  to  be  good? 
Apropos — when  I  first  opened  upon  the  just  mentioned 
poem,  in  a  careless  tone,  I  said  to  Mary,  as  if  putting  a 
riddle,  "  What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene  ?"  To  which, 
with  infinite  presence  of  mind  (as  the  jest-book  has  it), 
she  answered,  "a  shoeless  pea."  It  was  the  first  joke 
she  ever  made.  Joke  the  second  I  make.  You  distin- 
guish well,  in  your  old  preface,  between  the  verses  of 
Dr.  Johnson,  of  the  "Man  in  the  Strand,"  and  those 
from  "  The  Babes  in  the  Wood."  I  was  thinking,  whether 
taking  your  own  glorious  lines — 

"  And  from  the  love  which  was  in  her  soul 
For  her  youthful  Romilly," 

which,  by  the  love  I  bear  my  own  soul,  I  think  have  no 
parallel  in  any  of  the  best  old  ballads,  and  just  altering 
them  to — 

"  And  from  the  great  respect  she  felt 
For  Sir  Samuel  Romilly," 

would  not  have  explained  the  boundaries  of  prose  expres- 
sion, and  poetic  feeling,  nearly  as  well.  Excuse  my 
levity  on  such  an  occasion.  I  never  felt  deeply  in  my 
life  if  that  poem  did  not  make  me  feel,  both  lately  and 
when  I  read  it  in  MS.  No  alderman  ever  longed  after  a 
haunch  of  buck  venison  more  than  I  for  a  spiritual  taste 
of  that  "White  Doe"  you  promise.  I  am  sure  it  is 
superlative,  or  will  be  when  drest,  i.e.  printed.  All  things 
read  raw  to  me  in  MS. ;  to  compare  magna  parvis,  I 
cannot  endure  my  own  writings  in  that  state.  The  only 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  280 

one  which  I  think  would  not  very  much  win  upon  me  in 
print  is  "Peter  Bell."  But  I  am  not  certain.  You  ask 
me  about  your  preface.  I  like  both  that  and  the  supple- 
ment, without  an  exception.  The  account  of  what  you 
mean  by  imagination  is  very  valuable  to  me.  It  will 
help  me  to  like  some  things  in  poetry  better,  which  is  a 
little  humiliating  in  me  to  confess.  I  thought  I  could 
not  be  instructed  in  that  science  (I  mean  the  critical),  as 
I  once  heard  old  obscene,  beastly  Peter  Pindar,  in  a  dis- 
pute on  Milton,  say  he  thought  that  if  he  had  reason  to 
value  himself  upon  one  thing  more  than  another,  it  was 
in  knowing  what  good  verse  was.  Who  looked  over  your 
proof  sheets  and  left  ordebo  in  that  line  of  Virgil  1 

My  brother's  picture  of  Milton  is  very  finely  painted ; 
that  is,  it  might  have  been  done  by  a  hand  next  to 
Vandyke's.  It  is  the  genuine  Milton,  and  an  object  of 
quiet  gaze  for  the  half-hour  at  a  time.  Yet  though  I  am 
confident  there  is  no  better  one  of  him,  the  face  does  not 
quite  answer  to  Milton.  There  is  a  tinge  of  petit  (or 
petite,  how  do  you  spell  it  ?)  querulousuess  about  it ;  yet, 
hang  it !  now  I  remember  better,  there  is  not ;  it  is  calm, 
melancholy,  and  poetical.  One  of  the  copies  of  the  poems 
you  sent  has  precisely  the  same  pleasant  blending  of  a 
sheet  of  second  volume  with  a  sheet  of  first.  I  think  it 
was  page  245 ;  but  I  sent  it  and  had  it  rectified.  It 
gave  me  in  the  first  impetus  of  cutting  the  leaves,  just 
such  a  cold  squelch  as  going  down  a  plausible  turning 
and  suddenly  reading  "No  thoroughfare!"  Robinson's 
is  entire :  I  wish  you  would  write  more  criticism  about 
Spenser,  etc.  I  think  I  could  say  something  about  him 
myself;  but,  Lord  bless  me  !  these  "merchants  and  their 
spicy  drugs,"  which  are  so  harmonious  to  sing  of,  they  lime- 
twig  up  my  poor  soul  and  body,  till  I  shall  forget  I  ever 
thought  myself  a  bit  of  a  genius  !  I  can't  even  put  a  few 
thoughts*on  paper  for  a  newspaper.  I  "  engross  "  when 
I  should  "  pen  "  a  paragraph.  Confusion  blast  all  mer- 
cantile transactions,  all  traffic,  exchange  of  commodities, 
intercourse  between  nations,  all  the  consequent  civilisa- 
u 


290  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

tion,  and  wealth,  and  amity,  and  link  of  society,  and 
getting  rid  of  prejudices,  and  getting  a  knowledge  of  the 
face  of  the  globe ;  and  rotting  the  very  firs  of  the  forest, 
that  look  so  romantic  alive,  and  die  into  desks  !     Vale. 
Yours,  dear  W.,  and  all  yours,  C.  LAMB. 


To  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 
LETTER  CLIII.]  London,  May  6,  1815. 

Dear  Southey — I  have  received  from  Longman  a  copy 
of  Roderick,  with  the  Author's  Compliments,  for  which 
I  much  thank  you.  I  don't  know  where  I  shall  put  all 
the  noble  presents  I  have  lately  received  in  that  way : 
the  Excursion,  Wordsworth's  two  last  vols.,  and  now 
Roderick,  have  come  pouring  in  upon  me  like  some 
irruption  from  Helicon.  The  story  of  the  brave  Maccabee 
was  already,  you  may  be  sure,  familiar  to  me  in  all  its 
parts.  I  have,  since  the  receipt  of  your  present,  read  it 
quite  through  again,  and  with  no  diminished  pleasure. 
I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  say  that  it  has  given 
me  more  pleasure  than  any  of  your  long  poems.  Kefiama 
is  doubtless  more  powerful,  but  I  don't  feel  that  firm 
footing  in  it  that  I  do  in  Roderick  :  my  imagination  goes 
sinking  and  floundering  in  the  vast  spaces  of  unnpened- 
before  systems  and  faiths ;  I  am  put  out  of  the  pale  of 
my  old  sympathies ;  my  moral  sense  is  almost  outraged ; 
I  can't  believe,  or  with  horror  am  made  to  believe,  such 
desperate  chances  against  Omnipotence,  such  disturbances 
of  faith  to  the  centre ;  the  more  potent  the  more  painful 
the  spell.  Jove,  and  his  brotherhood  of  gods,  tottering 
with  the  giant  assailings,  I  can  bear,  for  the  soul's  hopes 
are  not  struck  at*  in  such  contests ;  but  your  Oriental 
almighties  are  too  much  types  of  the  intangible  prototype 
to  be  meddled  with  without  shuddering.  One  never 
connects  what  are  called  the  attributes  with  Jupiter. — 
I  mention  only  what  diminishes  my  delight  at  the  wonder- 
workings  of  KeJiamdy  not  what  impeaches  its  power, 


TO  SOUTHEY.  291 

which  I  confess  with  trembling ;  but  Roderick  is  a  com- 
fortable poem.  It  reminds  me  of  the  delight  I  took  in 
the  first  reading  of  the  Joan  of  Arc.  It  is  maturer  and 
better  than  that,  though  not  better  to  me  now  than  that 
was  then.  It  suits  me  better  than  Madoc.  I  am  at 
home  in  Spain  and  Christendom.  I  have  a  timid  imagina- 
tion, I  am  afraid.  I  do  not  willingly  admit  of  strange 
beliefs,  or  out-of-the-way  creeds  or  places.  I  never  read 
books  of  travels,  at  least  not  farther  than  Paris  or  Rome. 
I  can  just  endure  Moors,  because  of  their  connection  as 
foes  with  Christians;  but  Abyssinians,  Ethiops,  Esquimaux, 
Dervises,  and  all  that  tribe,  I  hate.  I  believe  I  fear 
them  in  some  manner.  A  Mahometan  turban  on  the 
stage,  though  enveloping  some  well-known  face  (Mr.  Cook 
or  Mr.  Maddox,  whom  I  see  another  day  good  Christian 
and  English  waiters,  innkeepers,  etc.),  does  not  give  me 
pleasure  unalloyed.  I  am  a  Christian,  Englishman, 
Londoner,  Templar.  God  help  me  when  I  come  to  put 
off  these  snug  relations,  and  to  get  abroad  into  the  world 
to  come !  I  shall  be  like  the  crow  on  the  sand,  as 
Wordsworth  has  it ;  but  I  won't  think  on  it :  no  need, 
I  hope,  yet. 

The  parts  I  have  been  most  pleased  with,  both  on  first 
and  second  readings,  perhaps,  are  Florinda's  palliation  of 
Roderick's  crime,  confessed  to  him  in  his  disguise — the 
retreat  of  the  Palayos  family  first  discovered — his  being 
made  king — "  For  acclamation  one  form  must  serve  more 
solemn  for  the  breach  of  old  observances."  Roderick's 
vow  is  extremely  fine,  and  his  blessing  on  the  vow  of 
Alphonso : 

M  Towards  the  troop  he  spread  his  arms, 
As  if  the  expanded  soul  diffused  itself, 
And  carried  to  all  spirits  with  the  act 
Its  affluent  inspiration." 

It  struck  me  forcibly  that  the  feeling  of  these  last 
lines  might  have  been  suggested  to  you  by  the  Cartoon 
of  Paul  at  Athens.  Certain  it  is  that  a  better  motto  or 
guide  to  that  famous  attitude  can  nowhere  be  found.  I 


292  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

shall  adopt  it  as  explanatory  of  that  violent  but  dignified 
motion. 

I  must  read  again  Lander's  Julian.  I  have  not  read 
it  some  time.  I  think  he  must  have  failed  in  Roderick, 
for  I  remember  nothing  of  him,  nor  of  any  distinct  char- 
acter as  a  character — only  fine-sounding  passages.  I 
remember  thinking  also  he  had  chosen  a  point  of  time 
after  the  event,  as  it  were,  for  Roderick  survives  to  no 
use ;  but  my  memory  is  weak,  and  I  will  not  wrong  a 
fine  poem  by  trusting  to  it. 

The  notes  to  your  poem  I  have  not  read  again :  but 
it  will  be  a  take-downable  book  on  my  shelf,  and  they 
will  serve  sometimes  at  breakfast,  or  times  too  light  for 
the  text  to  be  duly  appreciated.  Though  some  of  'em — 
one  of  the  serpent  penance — is  serious  enough,  now  I 
think  on't.  Of  Coleridge  I  hear  nothing,  nor  of  the 
Morgans.  I  hope  to  have  him  like  a  re-appearing  star, 
standing  up  before  me  some  time  when  least  expected  in 
London,  as  has  been  the  case  whilere. 

I  am  doing  nothing  (as  the  phrase  is)  but  reading 
presents,  and  walk  away  what  of  the  day  hours  I  can  get 
from  hard  occupation.  Pray  accept  once  more  my  hearty 
thanks,  and  expression  of  pleasure  for  your  remembrance 
of  me.  My  sister  desires  her  kind  respects  to  Mrs.  S. 
and  to  all  at  Keswick. 

Yours  truly,  C.  LAMB. 

The  next  present  I  look  for  is  the  White  Doe. 
Have  you  seen  Mat.   Betham's  Lay  of  Marie  1     I 
think  it  very  delicately  pretty  as  to  sentiment,  etc. 

E.  Southey,  Esq., 

Keswick,  near  Peurith, 
Cumberland. 


LETTER  CLIV.]  August  9,  1815. 

Dear  Southey — Robinson  is  not  on  the  circuit,  as  I 
erroneously  stated  in  a  letter  to  W.  W.,  which  travel? 


TO  SOUTHEY.  293 

with  this,  but  is  gone  to  Brussels,  Ostend,  Ghent,  etc. 
But  his  friends,  the  Colliers,  whom  I  consulted  respecting 
your  friend's  fate,  remember  to  have  heard  him  say  that 
Father  Pardo  had  effected  his  escape  (the  cunning  greasy 
rogue !),  and  to  the  best  of  their  belief  is  at  present  in 
Paris.  To  my  thinking,  it  is  a  small  matter  whether 
there  be  one  fat  friar  more  or  less  in  the  world.  I  have 
rather  a  taste  for  clerical  executions,  imbibed  from  early 
recollections  of  the  fate  of  the  excellent  Dodd.  I  hear 
Buonaparte  has  sued  his  habeas  corpus,  and  the  twelve 
judges  are  now  sitting  upon  it  at  the  Rolls. 

Your  boute-feu  (bonfire)  must  be  excellent  of  its  kind. 
Poet  Settle  presided  at  the  last  great  thing  of  the  kind 
in  London,  when  the  pope  was  burnt  in  form.  Do  you 
provide  any  verses  on  this  occasion  ?  Your  fear  for 
Hartley's  intellectuals  is  just  and  rational.  Could  not 
the  Chancellor  be  petitioned  to  remove  him  1  His  lord- 
ship took  Mr.  Betty  from  under  the  paternal  wing.  I 
think  at  least  he  should  go  through  a  course  of  matter- 
of-fact  with  some  sober  man  after  the  mysteries.  Could 
not  he  spend  a  week  at  Poole's  before  he  goes  back  to 
Oxford1?  Tobin  is  dead.  But  there  is  a  man  in  my 
office,  a  Mr.  Hedges,  who  proses  it  away  from  morning 
to  night,  and  never  gets  beyond  corporal  and  material 
verities.  He'd  get  these  crack-brain  metaphysics  out  of 
the  young  gentleman's  head  as  soon  as  any  one  I  know. 
When  I  can't  sleep  o'  nights,  I  imagine  a  dialogue  with 
Mr.  Hedges,  upon  any  given  subject,  and  go  prosing  on 
in  fancy  with  him,  till  I  either  laugh  or  fall  asleep.  I 
have  literally  found  it  answer.  I  am  going  to  stand 
godfather ;  I  don't  like  the  business ;  I  cannot  muster 
up  decorum  for  these  occasions ;  I  shall  certainly  disgrace 
the  font.  I  was  at  Hazlitt's  marriage,  and  had  like  to 
have  been  turned  out  several  times  during  the  ceremony. 
Anything  awful  makes  me  laugh.  I  misbehaved  once  at 
a  funeral.  Yet  I  can  read  about  these  ceremonies  with 
pious  and  proper  feelings.  The  realities  of  life  only  seem 
the  mockeries.  I  fear  I  must  get  cured  along  with 


294  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Hartley,  if  not  too  inveterate.     Don't  you  think  Louis 
the  Desirable  is  in  a  sort  of  quandary  ] 

After  all,  Buonaparte  is  a  fine  fellow,  as  my  barber 
says,  and  I  should  not  mind  standing  bareheaded  at  his 
table  to  do  him  service  in  his  fall.  They  should  have 
given  him  Hampton  Court  or  Kensington,  with  a  tether 
extending  forty  miles  round  London.  Qu.  Would  not 
the  people  have  ejected  the  Brunswicks  some  day  in  his 
favour  ?  Well,  we  shall  see.  C.  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 
LETTER  CLV.]  August  9,  1815. 

Dear  Wordsworth — We  acknowledge  with  pride  the 
receipt  of  both  your  handwritings,  and  desire  to  be  ever 
had  in  kindly  remembrance  by  you  both  and  by  Dorothy. 
Alsager,  whom  you  call  Alsinger  (and  indeed  he  is  rather 
singer  than  sager,  no  reflection  upon  his  naturals  neither), 
is  well,  and  in  harmony  with  himself  and  the  world.  I 
don't  know  how  he,  and  those  of  his  constitution,  keep 
their  nerves  so  nicely  balanced  as  they  do.  Or,  have 
they  any?  Or,  are  they  made  of  packthread?  He  is 
proof  against  weather,  ingratitude,  meat  underdone,  every 
weapon  of  fate.  I  have  just  now  a  jagged  end  of  a 
tooth  pricking  against  my  tongue,  which  meets  it  half 
way,  in  a  wantonness  of  provocation ;  and  there  they  go 
at  it,  the  tongue  pricking  itself,  like  the  viper  against 
the  file,  and  the  tooth  galling  all  the  gum  inside  and  out 
to  torture ;  tongue  and  tooth,  tooth  and  tongue,  hard  at 
it ;  and  I  to  pay  the  reckoning,  till  all  my  mouth  is  as 
hot  as  brimstone ;  and  I'd  venture  the  roof  of  my  mouth, 
that  at  this  moment,  at  which  I  conjecture  my  full- 
happiness'd  friend  is  picking  his  crackers,  not  one  of 
the  double  rows  of  ivory  in  his  privileged  mouth  has  c» 
much  as  a  flaw  in  it,  but  all  perform  their  functions,  and, 
having  performed  them,  expect  to  be  picked  (luxurious 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  295 

eteeds !),  and  rubbed  down.  I  don't  think  he  could  Be 
robbed,  or  have  the  house  set  on  fire,  or  ever  want  money. 
I  have  heard  him  express  a  similar  opinion  of  his  own 
impassibility.  I  keep  acting  here  Heautontimorumenos. 

Mr.  Burney  has  been  to  Calais,  and  has  come  a 
travelled  Monsieur.  He  speaks  nothing  but  the  Gallic 
Idiom.  Field  is  on  circuit.  So  now  I  believe  I  have 
given  account  of  most  that  you  saw  at  our  Cabin. 

Have  you  seen  a  curious  letter  in  the  Morning 
Chronicle,  by  C.  L.  [Capell  Lofft,]  the  genius  of  absurdity, 
respecting  Buonaparte's  suing  out  his  Habeas  Corpus  ] 
That  man  is  his  own  moon.  He  has  no  need  of  ascending 
into  that  gentle  planet  for  mild  influences. 

Mary  and  I  felt  quite  queer  after  your  taking  leave 
(you  W.  W.)  of  us  in  St.  Giles's.  We  wish  we  had  seen 
more  of  you,  but  felt  we  had  scarce  been  sufficiently 
acknowledging  for  the  share  we  had  enjoyed  of  your 
company.  We  felt  as  if  we  had  been  not  enough 
expressive  of  our  pleasure.  But  our  manners  both  are  a 
little  too  much  on  this  side  of  too-much-cordiality.  We 
want  presence  of  mind  and  presence  of  heart.  What  we 
feel  comes  too  late,  like  an  afterthought  impromptu.  But 
perhaps  you  observed  nothing  of  that  which  we  have  been 
painfully  conscious  of,  and  are  every  day  in  our  inter- 
course with  those  we  stand  affected  to  through  all  the 
degrees  of  love.  Robinson  is  on  the  circuit.  Our 
panegyrist  I  thought  had  forgotten  one  of  the  objects  of 
his  youthful  admiration,  but  I  was  agreeably  removed 
from  that  scruple  by  the  laundress  knocking  at  my  door 
this  morning,  almost  before  I  was  up,  with  a  present  of 
fruit  from  my  young  friend,  etc.  There  is  something  inex- 
pressibly pleasant  to  me  in  these  presents,  be  it  fruit,  or 
fowl,  or  brawn,  or  wJiat  not.  Books  are  a  legitimate 
cause  of  acceptance.  If  presents  be  not  the  soul  of 
friendship,  undoubtedly  they  are  the  most  spiritual  part 
of  the  body  of  that  intercourse.  There  is  too  much 
narrowness  of  thinking  in  this  poii  t.  The  punctilio  of 
acceptance,  methinks,  is  too  confined  and  strait-laced.  I 


296  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

could  be  content  to  receive  money,  or  clothes,  or  a  joint 
of  meat  from  a  friend.  Why  should  he  not  send  me  a 
dinner  as  well  as  a  dessert  1  I  would  taste  him  in  the 
beasts  of  the  field,  and  through  all  creation.  Therefore 
did  the  basket  of  fruit  of  the  juvenile  Talfourd  not  dis- 
please me ;  not  that  I  have  any  thoughts  of  bartering  or 
reciprocating  these  things.  To  send  him  anything  in 
return,  would  be  to  reflect  suspicion  of  mercenariness 
upon  what  I  know  he  meant  a  freewill  offering.  Let 
him  overcome  me  in  bounty.  In  this  strife  a  generous 
nature  loves  to  be  overcome.  You  wish  me  some  of  your 
leisure.  I  have  a  glimmering  aspect,  a  chink -light  of 
liberty  before  me,  which  I  pray  God  may  prove  not 
fallacious.  My  remonstrances  have  stirred  up  others  to 
remonstrate,  and  altogether,  there  is  a  plan  for  separating 
certain  parts  of  business  from  our  department ;  which,  if 
it  take  place,  will  produce  me  more  time,  i.e.  my  evenings 
free.  It  may  be  a  means  of  placing  me  in  a  more  con- 
spicuous situation,  which  will  knock  at  my  nerves  another 
way,  but  I  wait  the  issue  in  submission.  If  I  can  but 
begin  my  own  day  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I 
shall  think  myself  to  have  Eden  days  of  peace  and  liberty 
to  what  I  have  had.  As  you  say,  how  a  man  can  fill 
three  volumes  up  with  an  essay  on  the  drama  is  wonder- 
ful;  I  am  sure  a  very  few  sheets  woidd  hold  all  I  had  to 
say  on  the  subject. 

Did  you  ever  read  "  Charron  on  Wisdom "  ?  or 
"Patrick's  Pilgrim"?  If  neither,  you  have  two  great 
pleasures  to  come.  I  mean  some  day  to  attack  Caryl  on 
Job,  six  folios.  What  any  man  can  write,  surely  I  may 
read.  If  I  do  but  get  rid  of  auditing  warehousekeepers' 
accounts  and  get  no  worse-harassing  task  in  the  place  of 
it,  what  a  lord  of  liberty  I  shall  be  !  I  shall  dance  and 
skip,  and  make  mouths  at  tl  j  invisible  event,  and  pick 
the  thorns  out  of  my  pillow,  and  throw  'em  at  rich  men's 
night-caps,  and  talk  blank  verse,  hoity-toity,  and  sing — • 
"  A  clerk  I  was  in  London  gay,"  "  Ban,  ban,  Ca-Calibar," 
like  the  emancipated  monster,  and  go  where  I  like,  up 


TO  HUTCHINSON  297 

this  street  or  down  that  alley.     Adieu,  and  pray  that  it 
may  be  my  luck. 

Good-bye  to  you  alL  0.  LAMB. 


To  Miss  HUTCHINSON. 

LETTER  CLVL]  Thursday,  October  19,  1815. 

Dear  Miss  H. — I  am  forced  to  be  the  replier  to  your 
letter,  for  Mary  has  been  ill,  and  gone  from  home  these 
five  weeks  yesterday.  She  has  left  me  very  lonely  and 
very  miserable.  I  stroll  about,  but  there  is  no  rest  but  at 
one's  own  fireside,  and  there  is  no  rest  for  me  there  now. 
I  look  forward  to  the  worse  half  being  past,  and  keep  up 
as  well  as  I  can.  She  has  begun  to  show  some  favour- 
able symptoms.  The  return  of  her  disorder  has  been 
frightfully  soon  this  time,  with  scarce  a  six  months' 
interval.  I  am  almost  afraid  my  worry  of  spirits  about 
the  E.  I.  House  was  partly  the  cause  of  her  illness,  but 
one  always  imputes  it  to  the  cause  next  at  hand ;  more 
probably  it  comes  from  some  cause  we  have  no  control 
over  of  conjecture  of.  It  cuts  sad  great  slices  out  of  the 
time,  the  little  time,  we  shall  have  to  live  together.  I 
don't  know  but  the  recurrence  of  these  illnesses  might 
help  me  to  sustain  her  death  better  than  if  we  had  had 
no  partial  separations.  But  I  won't  talk  of  death.  I 
will  imagine  us  immortal,  or  forget  that  we  are  other- 
wise. By  God's  blessing,  in  a  few  weeks  we  may  be 
making  our  meal  together,  or  sitting  in  the  front  row  of 
the  Pit  at  Drury  Lane,  or  taking  our  evening  walk  past 
the  theatres,  to  look  at  the  outside  of  them,  at  least,  if 
not  to  be  tempted  in.  Then  we  forget  we  are  assailable ; 
we  are  strong  for  the  time  as  rocks ; — "  the  wind  is 
tempered  to  the  shorn  Lambs."  Poor  C.  Lloyd,  and  poor 
Priscilla  !  I  feel  I  hardly  feel  enough  for  him  ;  my  own 
calamities  press  about  me,  and  involve  me  in  a  thick 
integument  not  to  be  reached  at  by  other  folks'  misfor- 


298  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

tunes.  But  I  feel  all  I  can — all  the  kindness  I  can, 
towards  you  all — God  bless  you  1  I  hear  nothing  from 
Coleridge. 

Yours  truly,  C.  LAMB. 


To  THOMAS  MANNING. 
LETTER  CLVII.]  December  25,  1815. 

Dear  old  Friend  and  absentee — This  is  Christmas  Day 
1815  with  us ;  what  it  may  be  with  you  I  don't  know, 
the  12th  of  June  next  year  perhaps  ;  and  if  it  should  be 
the  consecrated  season  with  you,  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
keep  it.  You  have  no  turkeys ;  you  would  not  desecrate 
the  festival  by  offering  up  a  withered  Chinese  bantam, 
instead  of  the  savoury  grand  Norfolcian  holocaust,  that 
smokes  all  around  my  nostrils  at  this  moment  from  a 
thousand  firesides.  Then  what  puddings  have  you? 
Where  will  you  get  holly  to  stick  in  your  churches,  or 
churches  to  stick  your  dried  tea-leaves  (that  must  be  the 
substitute)  in?  What  memorials  you  can  have  of  the 
holy  time,  I  see  not.  A  chopped  missionary  or  two  may 
keep  up  the  thin  idea  of  Lent  and  the  wilderness ;  but 
what  standing  evidence  have  you  of  the  Nativity  1  'Tis 
our  rosy-cheeked,  homestalled  divines,  whose  faces  shine 
to  the  tune  of  "  Unto  us  a  child  was  born,"  faces  fragrant 
with  the  mince-pies  of  half  a  century,  that  alone  can 
authenticate  the  cheerful  mystery.  I  feel  my  bowels 
refreshed  with  the  holy  tide ;  my  zeal  is  great  against 
the  unedified  heathen.  Down  with  the  Pagodas — down 
with  the  idols — Ching-chong-fo — and  his  foolish  priest- 
hood !  Come  out  of  Babylon,  0  my  friend  !  for  her  time 
is  come ;  and  the  child  that  is  native,  and  die  Proselyte 
of  her  gates,  shall  kindle  and  smoke  together !  And 
in  sober  sense  what  makes  you  so  long  from  among  us, 
Manning  ?  You  must  not  expect  to  see  the  sami,  England 
again  which  you  left. 

Empires  have  been  overturned,  crowns  trodden  into 


TO  MANNING.  299 

dust,  the  face  of  the  western  world  quite  changed.  Your 
friends  have  all  got  old — those  you  left  blooming ;  myself 
(who  am  one  of  the  few  that  remember  you),  those  golden 
hairs  which  you  recollect  my  taking  a  pride  in,  turned  to 
silvery  and  gray.  Mary  has  been  dead  and  buried  many 
years  :  she  desired  to  be  buried  in  the  silk  gown  you  sent 
her.  Rickman,  that  you  remember  active  and  strong, 
now  walks  out  supported  by  a  servant  maid  and  a  stick. 
Martin  Burney  is  a  very  old  man.  The  other  day  an 
aged  woman  knocked  at  my  door,  and  pretended  to  my 
acquaintance.  It  was  long  before  I  had  the  most  distant 
cognition  of  her ;  but  at  last,  together,  we  made  her  out 
to  be  Louisa,  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Topham,  formerly 
Mrs.  Morton,  who  had  been  Mrs.  Reynolds,  formerly  Mrsi 
Kenney,  whose  first  husband  was  Holcroft,  the  dramatic 
writer  of  the  last  century.  St.  Paul's  Church  is  a  heap 
of  ruins ;  the  Monument  isn't  half  so  high  as  you  knew 
it,  divers  parts  being  successively  taken  down  which  the 
ravages  of  time  had  rendered  dangerous ;  the  horse  at 
Charing  Cross  is  gone,  no  one  knows  whither;  and  all 
this  has  taken  place  while  you  have  been  settling  whether 

Ho-hing-tong  should  be  spelt  with  a ,  or  a . 

For  aught  I  see  you  might  almost  as  well  remain  where 
you  are,  and  not  come  like  a  Struldbrug  into  a  world 
were  few  were  born  when  you  went  away.  Scarce  here 
and  there  one  will  be  able  to  make  out  your  face.  All 
your  opinions  will  be  out  of  date,  your  jokes  obsolete, 
your  puns  rejected  with  fastidiousness  as  wit  of  the  last 
age.  Your  way  of  mathematics  has  already  given  way 
to  a  new  method,  which  after  all  is  I  believe  the  old 
doctrine  of  Maclaurin,  new -vamped  up  with  what  he 
borrowed  of  the  negative  quantity  of  fluxions  from  Euler. 
Poor  Godwin  !  I  was  passing  his  tomb  the  other  day 
in  Cripplegate  churchyard.  There  are  some  verses  upon 

it  written  by  Miss ,  which  if  I  thought  good  enough 

I  would  send  you.  He  was  one  of  those  who  would 
have  hailed  your  return,  not  with  boisterous  shouts  and 
clamours,  but  with  the  complacent  gratulations  of  a 


300  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

philosopher  anxious  to  promote  knowledge  as  leading  to 
happiness;  but  his  systems  and  his  theories  are  ten 
feet  deep  in  Cripplegate  mould.  Coleridge  is  just  dead, 
having  lived  just  long  enough  to  close  the  eyes  of  Words- 
worth, who  paid  the  debt  to  Nature  but  a  week  or  two 
before.  Poor  Col.,  but  two  days  beiore  he  died  he  wrote 
to  a  bookseller,  proposing  an  epic  poem  on  the  "  Wander- 
ings of  Cain,"  in  twenty-four  books.  It  is  said  he  has 
left  behind  him  more  than  forty  thousand  treatises  in 
criticism,  metaphysics,  and  divinity,  but  few  of  them  in 
a  state  of  completion.  They  are  now  destined,  perhaps, 
to  wrap  up  spices.  You  see  what  mutations  the  busy 
hand  of  Time  has  produced,  while  you  have  consumed 
in  foolish  voluntary  exile  that  time  which  might  have 
gladdened  your  friends — benefited  your  country;  but 
reproaches  are  useless.  Gather  up  the  wretched  reliques, 
my  friend,  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  come  to  your  old  home. 
I  will  rub  my  eyes  and  try  to  recognise  you.  We  will 
shake  withered  hands  together,  and  talk  of  old  things — • 
of  St.  Mary's  Church  and  the  barber's  opposite,  where 
the  young  students  in  mathematics  used  to  assemble. 
Poor  Crips,  that  kept  it  afterwards,  set  up  a  fruiterer's 
shop  in  Trumpington  Street,  and  for  aught  I  know  resides 
there  still,  for  I  saw  the  name  up  in  the  last  journey  I 
took  there  with  my  sister  just  before  she  died.  I  suppose 
you  heard  that  I  had  left  the  India  House,  and  gone  into 
the  Fishmongers'  Almshouses  over  the  bridge.  I  have  a 
little  cabin  there,  small  and  homely,  but  you  shall  be 
welcome  to  it.  You  like  oysters,  and  to  open  them 
yourself;  I'll  get  you  some  if  you  come  in  oyster  time. 
Marshall,  Godwin's  old  friend,  is  still  alive,  and  talks  of 
the  faces  you  used  to  make. 

Come  as  soon  as  you  can.  C.  LAMB. 

LETTER  CLVIIL]  December  26,  1815. 

Dear  Manning — Following  your  brother's  example,  I 
have  just  ventured  one  letter  to  Canton,  and  am  now 


TO  MANNING.  301 

hazarding  another  (not  exactly  a  duplicate)  to  St.  Helena. 
The  first  was  full  of  improbable  romantic  fictions,  fitting 
the  remoteness  of  the  mission  it  goes  upon  ;  in  the  present 
I  mean  to  confine  myself  nearer  to  truth  as  you  come 
nearer  home.  A  correspondence  with  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth  necessarily  involves  in  it  some  heat  of  fancy ; 
it  sets  the  brain  agoing,  but  I  can  think  on  the  half-way 
house  tranquilly.  Your  friends  then  are  not  all  dead  or 
grown  forgetful  of  you  through  old  age,  as  that  lying 
letter  asserted,  anticipating  rather  what  must  happen  if 
you  kept  tarrying  on  for  ever  on  the  skirts  of  creation,  as 
there  seemed  a  danger  of  your  doing ;  but  they  are  all 
tolerably  well  and  in  full  and  perfect  comprehension  of 
what  is  meant  by  Manning's  coming  home  again.  Mrs. 
Kenney  never  lets  her  tongue  run  riot  more  than  in 
remembrances  of  you.  Fanny  expends  herself  in  phrases 
that  can  only  be  justified  by  her  romantic  nature.  Mary 
reserves  a  portion  of  your  silk,  not  to  be  buried  in  (as  the 
false  nuncio  asserts),  but  to  make  up  spick  and  span  into 
a  bran-new  gown  to  wear  when  you  coma  I  am  the 
same  as  when  you  knew  me,  almost  to  a  surfeiting 
identity.  This  very  night  I  am  going  to  leave  off  tobacco  ! 
Surely  there  must  be  some  other  world  in  which  this 
unconquerable  purpose  shall  be  realised.  The  soul  hath 
not  her  generous  aspirings  implanted  in  her  in  vain.  One 
that  you  knew,  and  I  think  the  only  one  of  those  friends 
we  knew  much  of  in  common,  has  died  in  earnest.  Poor 
Priscilla  !  Her  brother  Robert  is  also  dead,  and  several 
of  the  groMrn-up  brothers  and  sisters,  in  the  compass  of  a 
very  few  years.  Death  has  not  otherwise  meddled  much 
in  families  that  I  know.  Not  but  he  has  his  eye  upon 
us,  and  is  whetting  his  feathered  dart  every  instant,  as 
you  see  him  truly  pictured  in  that  impressive  moral 
picture,  "  The  good  man  at  the  hour  of  death."  I  have 
in  trust  to  put  in  the  post  four  letters  from  Diss,  and  one 
from  Lynn,  to  St.  Helena,  which  I  hope  will  accompany 
this  safe,  and  one  from  Lynn,  and  the  one  before  spoken 
of  from  me,  to  Canton.  But  we  all  hope  that  these 


302  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

letters  may  be  waste  paper.  I  don't  know  why  I  have 
forborne  writing  so  long ;  but  it  is  such  a  forloin  hope  to 
send  a  scrap  of  paper  straggling  over  wide  oceans  !  And 
yet  I  know,  when  you  come  home,  I  shall  have  you  sitting 
before  me  at  our  fireside  just  as  if  you  had  never  been 
away.  In  such  an  instant  does  the  return  of  a  person 
dissipate  all  the  weight  of  imaginary  perplexity  from 
distance  of  time  and  space !  I'll  promise  you  good 
oysters.  Corry  is  dead  that  kept  the  shop  opposite  St. 
Dunstan's ;  but  the  tougher  materials  of  the  shop  survive 
the  perishing  frame  of  its  keeper.  Oysters  continue  to 
flourish  there  under  as  good  auspices.  Poor  Corry  !  but 
if  you  will  absent  yourself  twenty  years  together,  you 
must  not  expect  numerically  the  same  population  to  con- 
gratulate your  return  which  wetted  the  sea-beach  with 
their  tears  when  you  went  away.  Have  you  recovered 
the  breathless  stone-staring  astonishment  into  which  you 
must  have  been  thrown  upon  learning  at  landing  that  an 
Emperor  of  France  was  living  in  St.  Helena  ?  What  an 
event  in  the  solitude  of  the  seas !  like  finding  a  fish's 
bone  at  the  top  of  Plinlimmon ;  but  these  things  are 
nothing  in  our  western  world.  Novelties  cease  to  affect. 
Come  and  try  what  your  presence  can. 

God  bless  you. — Your  old  friend,  C.  LAMB. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTEK  CLIX.]  April  9,  1816. 

Dear  Wordsworth — Thanks  for  the  books  you  have 
given  me  and  for  all  the  books  you  mean  to  give  me.  I 
will  bind  up  the  Political  Sonnets  and  Ode  according  to 
your  suggestion.  I  have  not  bound  the  poems  yet.  I 
wait  till  people  have  done  borrowing  them.  I  think  1 
shall  get  a  chain  and  chain  them  to  my  shelves,  more 
Bodleiano,  and  people  may  come  and  read  them  at  chain's 
length.  For  of  those  who  borrow,  some  read  slow ;  some 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  303 

mean  to  read  but  don't  read ;  and  some  neither  read  nor 
meant  to  read,  but  borrow  to  leave  you  an  opinion  of 
their  sagacity.  I  must  do  my  money-borrowing  friends 
the  justice  to  say  that  there  is  nothing  of  this  caprice  or 
wantonness  of  alienation  in  them.  When  they  borrow 
my  money  they  never  fail  to  make  use  of  it.  Coleridge 
has  been  here  about  a  fortnight.  His  health  is  tolerable 
at  present,  though  beset  with  temptations.  In  the  first 
place,  the  Covent  Garden  Manager  has  declined  accepting 
his  Tragedy,  though  (having  read  it)  I  see  no  reason 
upon  earth  why  it  might  not  have  run  a  very  fair  chance, 
though  it  certainly  wants  a  prominent  part  for  a  Miss 
O'Neil  or  a  Mr.  Kean.  However,  he  is  going  to-day  to 
write  to  Lord  Byron  to  get  it  to  Drury.  Should  you  see 
Mrs.  C.,  who  has  just  written  to  C.  a  letter,  which  I 
have  given  him,  it  will  be  as  well  to  say  nothing  about 
its  fate,  till  some  answer  is  shaped  from  Drury.  He  has 
two  volumes  printing  together  at  Bristol,  both  finished 
as  far  as  the  composition  goes ;  the  latter  containing  his 
fugitive  poems,  the  former  his  Literary  Life.  Nature, 
who  conducts  every  creature,  by  instinct,  to  its  best 
end,  has  skilfully  directed  C.  to  take  up  his  abode  at  a 
Chemist's  Laboratory  in  Norfolk  Street.  She  might  as 
well  have  sent  a  Helluo  Librorum  for  cure  to  the  Vatican. 
God  keep  him  inviolate  among  the  traps  and  pitfalls ! 
He  has  done  pretty  well  as  yet. 

Tell  Miss  H[utchinson]  my  sister  is  every  day  wishing 
to  be  quietly  sitting  down  to  answer  her  very  kind  letter, 
but  while  C.  stays  she  can  hardly  find  a  quiet  time ;  God 
bless  him  ! 

Tell  Mrs.  W.  her  postscripts  are  always  agreeable. 
They  are  so  legible  too.  Your  manual-graphy  is  terrible, 
dark  as  Lycophron.  "  Likelihood,"  for  instance,  is  thus 
typified  ....  I  should  not  wonder  if  the  constant 
making  out  of  such  paragraphs  is  the  cause  of  that  weak- 
ness in  Mrs.  W.'s  eyes,  as  she  is  tenderly  pleased  to 
express  it.  Dorothy,  I  hear,  has  mounted  spectacles ;  so 
you  have  deoculate  d  two  of  your  dearest  relations  in  life. 


304  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Weil,  God  bless  you,  and  continue  to  give  you  power  tc 
write  with  a  finger  of  power  upon  our  hearts  what  you 
fail  to  impress,  in  corresponding  lucidness,  upon  our  out- 
ward eye-sight ! 

Mary's  love  to  all ;  she  is  quite  well. 

I  ain  called  off  to  do  the  deposits  on  Cotton  Wool ; 
but  why  do  I  relate  this  to  you,  who  want  faculties  to 
comprehend  the  great  mystery  of  deposits,  of  interests,  of 
warehouse  rent,  and  contingent  fund  ?  Adieu  ! 

C.  LAMB. 

A  longer  letter  when  C.  is  gone  back  into  the  country, 
relating  his  success,  etc. — my  judgment  of  your  new 
books,  etc.  etc. — I  am  scarce  quiet  enough  while  he 
stays. 

Yours  again,  C.  L. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

LETTER  CLX.]  Accountant's  Office,  April  26,  1816. 

Dear  W. — I  have  just  finished  the  pleasing  task  of 
correcting  the  revise  of  the  poems  and  letter.  I  hope 
they  will  come  out  faultless.  One  blunder  I  saw  and 
shuddered  at.  The  hallucinating  rascal  had  printed 
battered  for  battened,  this  last  not  conveying  any  distinct 
sense  to  his  gaping  soul.  The  Reader  (as  they  call  'em) 
had  discovered  it,  and  given  it  the  marginal  brand,  but 
the  substitutory  n  had  not  yet  appeared.  I  accompanied 
his  notice  with  a  most  pathetic  address  to  the  printer  not 
to  neglect  the  correction.  I  know  how  such  a  blunder 
would  "batter  at  your  peace."  With  regard  to  the 
works,  the  Letter  I  read  with  unabated  satisfaction.  Such 
a  thing  was  wanted — called  for.  The  parallel  of  Cotton 
with  Burns  I  heartily  approve.  Izaak  Walton  hallows 
any  page  in  which  his  reverend  name  appears.  "  Duty 
archly  bending  to  purposes  of  general  benevolence "  ia 
exquisite.  The  poems  I  endeavoured  not  to  understand, 
but  t->  read  them  with  my  eye  alone,  and  I  think  I  sue- 


TO  WORDSWORTH.  305 

ceeded.  (Some  people  will  do  that  when  they  come  out, 
you'll  say.)  As  if  I  were  to  luxuriate  to-morrow  at  some 
pictu;  e  gallery  I  was  never  at  before,  and  going  by  to-day 
by  chance,  found  the  door  open,  and  had  but  five  minutes 
to  look  about  me,  peeped  in ;  just  such  a  chastised  peep 
I  took  with  my  mind  at  the  lines  my  luxuriating  eye  was 
coursing  over  unrestrained,  not  to  anticipate  another  day's 
fuller  satisfaction.  Coleridge  is  printing  "  Christabel," 
by  Lord  Byron's  recommendation  to  Murray,  with  what 
he  calls  a  vision,  "  Kubla  Khan,"  which  said  vision  he 
repeats  so  enchantingly  that  it  irradiates  and  brings 
heaven  and  elysian  bowers  into  my  parlour  while  he  sings 
or  says  it ;  but  there  is  an  observation,  "  Never  tell  thy 
dreams,"  and  I  am  almost  afraid  that  "  Kubla  Khan  "  is 
an  owl  that  won't  bear  daylight.  I  fear  lest  it  should 
be  discovered  by  the  lantern  of  typography  and  clear 
reducting  to  letters  no  better  than  nonsense  or  no  sense. 
When  I  was  young  I  used  to  chant  with  ecstasy  "  MILD 
ARCADIANS  EVER  BLOOMING,"  till  somebody  told  me  it 
was  meant  to  be  nonsense.  Even  yet  I  have  a  lingering 
attachment  to  it,  and  I  think  it  better  than  "  Windsor 
Forest,"  "Dying  Christian's  Address,"  etc.  Coleridge 
has  sent  his  tragedy  to  D[rury]  L[ane]  T[heatre].  It 
cannot  be  acted  this  season ;  and  by  their  manner  of 
receiving,  I  hope  he  will  be  able  to  alter  it  to  make  them 
accept  it  for  next.  He  is,  at  present,  under  the  medical 
care  of  a  Mr.  Gillman  (Killman  ?)  a  Highgate  apothecary 
where  he  plays  at  leaving  off  laud — m.  I  think  his 
essentials  not  touched :  he  is  very  bad ;  but  then  he 
wonderfully  picks  up  another  day,  and  his  face,  when  he 
repeats  his  verses,  hath  its  ancient  glory ;  an  archangel  a 
little  damaged.  Will  Miss  H.  pardon  our  not  replying 
at  length  to  her  kind  letter  1  We  are  not  quiet  enough  ; 
Morgan  is  with  us  every  day,  going  betwixt  Highgate 
and  the  Temple.  Coleridge  is  absent  but  four  miles,  and 
the  neighbourhood  of  such  a  man  is  as  exciting  as  the 
presence  of  fifty  ordinary  persons.  ;Tis  enough  to  be 
within  the  whiff  and  wind  of  his  genius  for  us  not  to 
x 


306  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

possess  our  souls  in  quiet.  If  I  lived  with  him  or  the 
Author  of  the  Excursion,  I  should,  in  a  very  little  time, 
lose  my  own  identity,  and  be  dragged  along  in  the  current 
of  other  people's  thoughts,  hampered  in  a  net.  How  cool 
I  sit  in  this  office,  with  no  possible  interruption  further 
than  what  I  may  term  material !  There  is  not  as  much 
metaphysics  in  thirty-six  of  the  people  here  as  there  is 
in  the  first  page  of  Locke's  "Treatise  on  the  Human 
Understanding,"  or  as  much  poetry  as  in  any  ten  lines 
of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  or  more  natural  "  Beggar's 
Petition."  I  never  entangle  myself  in  any  of  their 
speculations.  Interruptions,  if  I  try  to  write  a  lettei 
even,  I  have  dreadful.  Just  now,  within  four  lines,  I 
was  called  off  for  ten  minutes  to  consult  dusty  old  books 
for  the  settlement  of  obsolete  errors.  I  hold  you  a 
guinea  you  don't  find  the  chasm  where  I  left  off,  so 
excellently  the  wounded  sense  closed  again  and  was 
healed. 

N.E. — Nothing  said  above  to  the  contrary,  but  that 
J  hold  the  personal  presence  of  the  two  mentioned  potent 
fepirits  at  a  rate  as  high  as  any ;  but  I  pay  dearer.  What 
amuses  others  robs  me  of  myself:  my  mind  is  positively 
discharged  into  their  greater  currents,  but  flows  with  a 
willing  violence.  As  to  your  question  about  work,  it  is 
far  less  oppressive  to  me  than  it  was,  from  circumstances. 
It  takes  all  the  golden  part  of  the  day  away,  a  solid 
lump,  from  ten  to  four ;  but  it  does  not  kill  my  peace  as 
before.  Some  day  or  other  I  shall  be  in  a  taking  again. 
My  head  aches,  and  you  have  had  enough.  God  bless 
foul  C.  LAMB. 

To  Miss  MATILDA  BETHAM. 

LETTER  CLXI.]  East  India  House,  June  1,  1816. 

Dear  Miss  Betham — All  this  while  I  have  been  tor- 
menting myself  with  the  thought  of  having  been  ungracious 


TO  MISS  BETHAM.  307 

to  you,  and  you  have  been  all  the  while  accusing  yourself. 
Let  us  absolve  one  another,  and  be  quiet.  My  head  is  it) 
such  a  state  from  incapacity  for  business  that  I  certainly 
know  it  to  be  my  duty  not  to  undertake  the  veriest  trifle 
in  addition.  I  hardly  know  how  I  can  go  on.  I  have 
tiied  to  get  some  redress  by  explaining  my  health,  but 
\vith  no  great  success.  No  one  can  tell  how  ill  I  am 
because  it  does  not  come  out  to  the  exterior  of  my  face, 
but  lies  in  my  skull,  deep  and  invisible.  I  wish  I  was 
leprous,  and  black  jaundiced  skin  over,  and  that  all  was 
as  well  within  as  my  cursed  looks.  You  must  not  think 
me  worse  than  I  am.  I  am  determined  not  to  be  over- 
set, but  to  give  up  business  rather,  and  get  'em  to  allow 
me  a  trifle  for  services  past.  Oh  !  that  I  had  been  a 
shoemaker,  or  a  baker,  or  a  man  of  large  independent 
fortune  !  Oh  !  darling  laziness  !  heaven  of  Epicurus  ! 
Saint's  Everlasting  Rest !  that  I  could  drink  vast  pota- 
tions of  thee  thro'  unmeasured  Eternity — Otiutn  cum,  vel 
sine  dignitate.  Scandalous,  dishonourable — any  kind  of 
repose.  I  stand  not  upon  the  dignified  sort.  Accursed, 
damned  desks,  trade,  commerce,  business  !  Inventions 
of  the  old  original  busy-body,  brain -working  Satan — 
Sabbathless,  restless  Satan !  A  curse  relieves :  do  you 
ever  try  it  ] 

A  strange  letter  to  write  to  a  lady ;  but  more  honeyed 
sentences  will  not  distil.  I  dare  not  ask  who  revises  in 
iny  stead.  I  have  drawn  you  into  a  scrape  and  am 
ashamed ;  but  I  know  no  remedy.  My  uuwellness  must 
be  my  apology.  God  bless  you  (tho'  He  curse  the  India 
House,  and  fire  it  to  the  ground],  and  may  no  unkind 
error  creep  into  "Marie"/  May  all  its  readers  like  it  as 
well  as  I  do,  and  everybody  about  you  like  its  kind  author 
no  worse  !  Why  the  devil  am  I  never  to  have  a  chance 
of  scribbling  my  own  free  thoughts,  verse  or  prose,  again  ? 
Why  must  I  write  of  tea  and  drugs,  and  price  goods  and 
the  bales  of  indigo  1  Farewell.  C.  LAMB. 

Mary  goes  to  her  place  on  Sunday — I  mean  your  maid, 
foolish  Mary ;  she  wants  a  very  little  brains  only  to  be 


308  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

an  excellent  servant ;  she  is  excellently  calculated  for  the 
country,  where  nobody  has  brains. 

Have  you  seen  "  Christabel "  since  its  publication  1 


To  H.  DODWELL. 
LETTER  CLXIL]  July  1816. 

My  dear  fellow — I  have  been  in  a  lethargy  this  long 
while,  and  forgotten  London,  Westminster,  Marybone, 
Paddington — they  all  went  clean  out  of  my  head,  till 
happening  to  go  to  a  neighbor's  in  this  good  borough 
of  Calne,  for  want  of  whist  players,  we  fell  upon 
Commerce:  the  word  awoke  me  to  a  remembrance 
of  my  professional  avocations  and  the  long -continued 
strife  which  I  have  been  these  24  years  endeavoring 
to  compose  between  those  grand  Irreconcileables  Cash 
and  Commerce ;  I  instantly  called  for  an  almanack, 
which  with  some  difficulty  was  procured  at  a  fortune- 
teller's in  the  vicinity  (for  the  happy  holyday  people  here 
having  nothing  to  do,  keep  no  account  of  time),  and 
found  that  by  dint  of  duty  I  must  attend  in  Leadenhall 
on  Wednesy.  morning  next,  and  shall  attend  accordingly. 
Does  Master  Hannah  give  macaroons  still,  and  does  he 
fetch  the  Cobbetts  from  my  Attic  ?  Perhaps  it  wouldn't 
be  too  much  trouble  for  him  to  drop  the  inclosed  up  at 
my  aforesaid  Chamber,  and  any  letters,  etc.,  with  it; 
but  the  inclosed  should  go  without  delay.  N.B. — He 
isn't  to  fetch  Monday's  Cobbett,  but  it  is  to  wait  my 
reading  when  I  come  back.  Heigh  Ho !  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  me,  how  many  does  two  and  two  make?  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  make  a  poor  clerk  in  future,  I  am 
spoiled  with  rambling  among  haycocks  and  cows  and 
pigs.  Bless  me  !  I  had  like  to  have  forgot  (the  air  is  so 
temperate  and  oblivious  here)  to  say  I  have  seen  your 
brother,  and  hope  he  is  doing  well  in  the  finest  spot 
of  the  world.  More  of  these  things  when  I  return. 
Remember  me  to  the  gentlemen, — I  forget  names.  Shall 


TO  DODWELL.  309 

I  find  all  my  letters  at  iny  rooms  on  Tuesday  ?  [f  you 
forgot  to  send  'em  never  mind,  for  I  don't  much  care 
for  reading  and  writing  now ;  I  shall  come  back  again 
by  degrees,  I  suppose,  into  my  former  habits.  How  is 
Bruce  de  Ponthieu,  and  Porcher  and  Co.  ? — the  tears 
come  into  my  eyes  when  I  think  how  long  I  have 
neglected . 

Adieu!  ye  fields,  ye  shepherds  and — herdesses,  and 
dairies  and  cream-pots,  and  fairies  and  dances  upon  the 
green. 

I  come,  I  come.  Don't  drag  me  so  hard  by  the  hair  of 
my  head,  Genius  of  British  India  !  I  know  my  hour  is 
come,  Faustus  must  give  up  his  soul,  0  Lucifer,  O 
Mephistopheles  !  Can  you  make  out  what  all  this  letter 
is  about  1  I  am  afraid  to  look  it  over.  OH.  LAMB. 

Calne,  Wilts,  Friday, 
July  something,  old  style,  1816. 

No  new  style  here,  all  the  styles  are  old,  and  some  of 
the  gates  too  for  that  matter. 

[Addressed]  H.  Dodwell,  Esq., 

India  House,  London. 

la  his  absence  may  be  opened  by  Mr.  Chambers. 


CHAPTER   L 

1796-1800. 

THE  Letters  of  this  period  are  chiefly  addressed  to  Coleridge, 
then  at  Bristol.  They  relate  the  sad  fortunes  of  the  Lamb 
family,  arising  out  of  the  death  of  the  mother  in  September 
1796.  They  are  also  largely  critical,  and  deal  with  Coleridge's 
first  published  poems,  and  the  joint  volume  in  which  Lamb  and 
Charles  Lloyd  made  their  earliest  appearance  in  print. 

LETTER  I  (p.  1). — Southey  had  just  published  his  Joan  of 
Arc,  in  quarto.  He  had  produced  two  years  before  at  Bristol, 
in  conjunction  with  Robert  Lovell,  Poems  by  Bion  and  Moschus. 
Charles  Valentine  Le  Grice,  here  mentioned,  was  schoolfellow 
with  Lamb  and  Coleridge  at  Christ's  Hospital,  as  also  was 
James  White.  The  latter  published  his  Original  Letters  of 
8ir  John  Falstaff  in  this  year.  They  were  dedicated,  in  a 
manifestly  satirical  spirit,  to  "  Master  Samuel  Irelaunde."  The 
allusions  in  the  letter  to  Coleridge's  "Numbers"  are  to  the 
weekly  issue  of  his  Watchman,  which  first  appeared  on  March 
1,  1796,  and  expired  on  May  13.  Condones  ad  Populum,  or, 
Addresses  to  the  People,  appeared  in  November  1795. 

LETTER  II  (p.  3). — Poems  on  Various  Subjects,^  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge, late  of  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  was  published  this  year, 
and  it  is  to  this  volume,  or  the  proof-sheets  of  it  sent  for  inspec- 
tion, that  Lamb  here  refers  as  "your  poems."  The  volume 
contained  four  sonnets  signed  C.  L.,  and  Coleridge's  Preface 
announced  that  they  "were  written  by  Mr.  Charles  Lamb  of 
the  India  House."  The  other  sonnets  by  Lamb  here  .submitted 
to  Coleridge's  opinion  appeared  in  the  second  edition  of  Cole- 
ridge's Poems,  in  1797.  The  story  of  the  preparation  of  these 
sinall  volumes  of  verse  may  be  read,  concurrently  with  these 
letters,  in  Joseph  Cottle's  Recollections  of  Coleridge,  vol.  i 


312  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Moschus  was  Robert  Lovell,  Southey's  brother-in-law,  several  of 
whose  sonnets  were  printed  by  Coleridge  in  Ids  Watchman.  He 
died  of  fever  in  this  year.  The  "  difference  "  which  Lamb  alludes 
to  as  having  arisen  between  Coleridge  and  Southey  was  the  split 
on  the  Pantisocratic  Scheme  which  was  to  have  been  carried 
out  by  the  young  colonists  on  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna. 

LETTER  III  (p.  10). — The  simile  of  the  Laplander, 
.     .     .     "by  Niemi  lake," 

is  from  Coleridge's  Destiny  of  Nations.  The  allusion  to  the 
"  Monody  on  Henderson "  in  this  letter  needs  explanation. 
John  Henderson  was  a  singular  genius  and  precocious  scholar, 
the  son  of  a  Bristol  schoolmaster,  an  account  of  whom  will  be 
found  in  the  appendix  to  the  second  volume  of  Cottle's  Recollec- 
tions of  Coleridge.  Cottle  was  also  the  author  of  the  "Monody 
on  Henderson  "  here  referred  to.  It  had  appeared  in  a  small 
volume  of  poems  published,  without  Cottle's  name,  at  Bristol 
in  1795.  Coleridge  had  evidently  forwarded  this  volume  to 
Lamb  for  his  opinion.  The  lines  criticised  by  Lamb  occur  in 
the  following  passage  : — 

"  As  o'er  thy  tomb,  my  Henderson  !  I  bend, 
Shall  I  not  praise  thee  ?  scholar,  Christian,  friend  ! 
The  tears  which  o'er  a  brother's  recent  grave 
Fond  nature  sheds,  those  copious  tears  I  gave  ; 
But  now  that  Time  her  softening  hues  has  brought 
And  mellowed  anguish  into  pensive  thought ; 
Since  through  the  varying  scenes  of  life  I've  passed, 
Comparing  still  the  former  with  the  last, 
I  prize  thee  more  !     The  great,  the  learrCd  I  see, 
Yet  memory  turns  from  little  men  to  thee." 

The  other  "Monody"  here  criticised  is  that  of  Coleridge  on 
Chatterton.  The  first  symptoms  of  the  subsequent  coolness 
between  Coleridge  and  Lamb  may  here  be  detected.  It  had  its 
source  in  a  delicate  matter — Coleridge's  alterations  of  Lamb's 
sonnets.  The  " Epitaph  on  an  Infant"  is  the  famous  one — 

"Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade  ;" 

at  which  Lamb  never  tired  of  laughing,  up  to  the  day  when  he 
applied  it,  in  his  "Essay  on  Roast  Pig,"  to  the  infant  grunter. 
Dr.  Forster  is  his  playful  way  of  writing  Dr.  Faustus. 

LETTER  IV  (p.  21). — Your  part  of  the  "Joan  of  Arc."  "To 
the  second  book  Coleridge  contributed  some  four  hundred  lines, 
where  Platonic  philosophy  and  protests  against  the  Newtonian 
hypothesis  of  sether  are  not  very  appropriately  brought  into 
connection  with  the  shepherd-girl  of  Domremi.  These  line* 


NOTES.  313 

disappeared  from  all  editions  after  the  first." — (Dowden'a 
Southey,  in  the  "Men  of  Letters'  Series.") 

The  verses  on  Lamb's  grandmother  are  those  afterwards 
entitled  "  The  Graudame."  See  Poems,  Plays,  and  Essays,  vol. 
ii.  of  this  series,  p.  8. 

LETTER  V  (p.  23). — The  Salutation.  The  inn  near  Christ's 
Hospital  where  Lamb  and  Coleridge  used  occasionally  to  meet 
and  discuss  poetry  after  Coleridge's  departure  from  school.  See 
Lamb's  Preface  to  the  1818  edition  of  his  works. 

LETTER  VI  (p.  26). — The  Dactyls  here  parodied*  were  by 
Southey,  one  stanza  of  them  only  being  Coleridge's.  They 
appear  in  Southey' s  Collected  Poems  as  "The  Soldier's  Wife," 
and  begin — 

"  Weary  way- wanderer  !  languid  and  sick  at  heart, 
Travelling  painfully  over  the  rugged  road  ; 
Wild-visaged  wanderer !  God  help  thee,  wretched  one." 

It  will  be  remembered  as  a  curious  coincidence  that  the  same 
lines  attracted  the  notice  of  the  writers  in  the  Anti-Jacobin, 
where  a  very  humorous  parody  of  them  appears,  which  may  be 
compared  with  Lamb's.  Another  like  experiment  in  Latin 
metres  by  Southey  was  there  transmuted  into  the  more  famous 
Knife-Grinder. 

Your  oion  lines,  introductory  to  your  poem  on  'Self,'  run 
smoothly  and  pleasurably.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  refer- 
ence is  to  a  Fragment  by  Coleridge  called  "Melancholy,"  and 
to  a  poem  addressed  to  Lamb,  entitled  "  To  a  Friend,  together 
with  iin  Unfinished  Poem."  I  believe  that  the  unfinished  poem 
was  the  Fragment  just  mentioned.  Both  were  written  as  early 
as  1794,  and  the  Fragment  first  appeared  in  the  Morning 
Chronicle. 

The  poem  referred  to  on  the  "Prince  and  Princess"  was 
that  bearing  the  title  "On  a  Late  Connubial  Rupture  in  High 
Life,"  now  first  submitted  to  Lamb  in  manuscript. 

LETTER  VII  (p.  28). — White's  Falstaff  Letters  have  been 
already  referred  to.  Dr.  Kenrick's  Falstaff's  Wedding  was 
published  in  1760.  "Master  Dyer"  is  the  first  mention  in 
these  letters  of  George  Dyer.  See  notes  in  Essays  of  Mia, 
to  "Oxford  in  the  Vacation."  Biirger's  Leonora,  translated  by 
William  Taylor  of  Norwich,  first  appeared  in  this  year. 

The  Statute  de  Contumelid.  See  Coleridge's  "  Lines  composed 
in  a  Concert  Room."  In  most  editions  of  Coleridge  these  lines 
are  dated  1799,  but  it  will  be  seen  that  Coleridge  submitted 
them  to  Lamb  three  years  before. 


314  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LETTERS  VIII,  IX,  X,  XI  (p.  32-41).— The  following  letters 
tell  the  sad  story  of  the  death  of  Lamb's  mother.  "Whether 
the  Mr.  N  orris  of  Christ's  Hospital,  here  mentioned,  is  the  Mr. 
Randal  Norris,  afterwards  Sub-Treasurer  of  the  Inner  Temple,  • 
and  to  the  end  of  his  life  Lamb's  faithful  friend,  I  cannot  say. 
Mr.  Randal  Norris's  daughter  tells  me  that  she  knows  nothing 
of  her  father  having  ever  been  connected  with  Christ's  Hospital. 

Write  as  religious  a  letter  as  possible.  Coleridge,  we  might 
be  sure,  obeyed  this  touching  behest.  In  Gillman's  unfinished 
Life  of  Coleridge  there  is  given  a  letter  by  Coleridge  addressed 
"To  a  friend  in  great  anguish  of  mind  on  the  sudden  death 
of  his  mother."  It  is  beyond  all  doubt  the  one  addressed  on 
this  occasion  to  Lamb,  for,  as  will  be  seen,  it  cites  Lamb's 
particular  request  for  "  a  religious  letter."  It  runs  as  follows  : — 

"Your  letter,  my  friend,  struck  me  with  a  mighty  horror. 
It  rushed  upon  me  and  stupified  my  feelings.  You  bid  me 
write  you  a  religious  letter  :  I  am  not  a  man  who  would  attempt 
to  insult  the  greatness  of  your  anguish  by  any  other  consola- 
tion. Heaven  knows  that  in  the  easiest  fortunes  there  is  much 
dissatistaction  and  weariness  of  spirit :  much  that  calls  for 
the  exercise  of  patience  and  resignation  ;  but  in  storms  like 
these,  that  shake  the  dwelling  and  make  the  heart  tremble, 
there  is  no  middle  way  between  despair  and  the  yielding  up  of 
the  whole  spirit  unto  the  guidance  of  faith.  And  surely  it  is  a 
matter  of  joy  that  your  faith  in  Jesus  has  been  preserved  :  the 
Comforter  that  should  relieve  you  is  not  far  from  you.  But, 
as  you  are  a  Christian,  in  the  name  of  that  Saviour  who  was 
filled  with  bitterness  and  made  drunken  with  wormwood,  I 
conjure  you  to  have  recourse  in  frequent  prayer  to  '  his  God 
and  your  God,'  the  God  of  mercies  and  Father  of  all  comfort. 
Your  poor  father  is,  I  hope,  almost  senseless  of  the  calamity : 
the  unconscious  instrument  of  Divine  Providence  knows  it  not, 
and  your  mother  is  in  Heaven.  It  is  sweet  to  be  roused  from 
a  frightful  dream  by  the  song  of  birds,  and  the  gladsome  rays  of 
the  morning.  Ah  !  how  infinitely  more  sweet  to  be  awakened 
from  the  blackness  and  amazement  of  a  sudden  horror  by  the 
glories  of  God  manifest,  and  the  hallelujahs  of  angels. 

"As  to  what  regards  yourself,  I  approve  altogether  of  your 
abandoning  what  you  justly  call  vanities.  I  look  upon  you  as 
a  man  called  by  sorrow  and  anguish  and  a  strange  desolation 
of  hopes  into  quietness,  and  a  soul  set  apart  and  made  peculiar 
to  Gfd :  W(«  cannot  arrive  at  any  portion  of  heavenly  bliss 
without,  in  some  measure,  imitating  Christ.  And  they  arrive  at 
the  largest  inheritance  who  imitate  the  most  difficult  parts  of 
His  character,  and,  bowed  down  and  crushed  under  foot,  cry  in 
fulness  of  faith,  '  Father,  thy  will  be  done. ' 

"I  wish  above  measure  to  have  you  for  a  little  while  here 


NOTES.  315 

no  visitants  shall  blow  on  the  nakedness  of  your  feelings  ;  you 
shall  be  quiet,  and  your  spirit  may  be  healed.  I  see  no  possible 
objection,  unless  your  father's  helplessness  prevent  you,  and 
unless  you  are  necessary  to  him.  If  this  be  not  the  case,  I 
charge  you  write  me  that  you  will  come. 

"  I  charge  you,  my  dearest  friend,  not  to  dare  to  encourage 
gloom  or  despair :  you  are  a  temporary  sharer  in  human  miseries 
that  you  may  be  an  eternal  partaker  of  the  Divine  Nature.  I 
charge  you,  if  by  any  means  it  is  possible,  come  to  me"  (Gill- 
man's  Life  of  Coleridge,  vol.  i.  p.  338).  See,  afterwards,  poor 
Lamb's  comments  on  the  concluding  sentences  of  this  letter. 

LETTER  XII  (p.  41). — Lamb  begins  to  find  an  interest  in 
books  once  more.  William  Lisle  Bowles's  Poem,  Hope,  appeared 
this  year  in  handsome  quarto.  The  Pursuits  of  Literature,  by 
T.  J.  Mathias,  was  also  just  published  in  its  complete  form, 
but  anonymously. 

LETTER  XIII  (p.  43). — Coleridge  had  removed  about  Christ- 
mas of  this  year  to  a  cottage  at  Nether-Stowey  near  Bristol,  in 
order  to  be  near  his  friend  Thomas  Poole.  A  letter  written  to 
Joseph  Cottle,  shortly  after  his  arrival,  tells  the  same  story  of 
deep  melancholy  as  he  had  also  apparently  confided  to  Lamb  : — 
"  On  the  Saturday,  the  Sunday  and  ten  days  after  my  arrival 
at  Stowey,  I  felt  a  depression  too  dreadful  to  be  described, 

'  So  much  I  felt  my  genial  spirits  droop, 
My  hopes  all  flat :  Nature  within  me  seemed 
In  all  her  functions,  weary  of  herself.' 

"  Wordsworth's  conversation  aroused  me  somewhat,  but  even 
now  I  am  not  the  man  I  have  been,  and  I  think  never  shall. 
A  sort  of  calm  hopelessness  diffuses  itself  over  my  heart.  In- 
deed every  mode  of  life  which  has  promised  me  bread  and 
cheese,  has  been  one  after  another  torn  away  from  me,  but  God 
remains." 

The  rest  of  Lamb's  letter  refers  to  the  arrangements  in 
progress  for  the  publication  of  the  second  edition  (1797)  of  Cole- 
ridge's Poems,  with  others  by  Lamb  and  Lloyd.  The  sonnet 
ending  "So,  for  the  mother's  sake,"  is  that  entitled  "To  a 
Friend  who  asked  how  I  felt  when  the  Nurse  first  presented 
my  Infant  to  me." 

LETTER  XIV  (p.  46). — Coleridge  dedicated  the  volume  of 
1797  to  his  brother,  George  Coleridge  of  Ottery  St.  Mary  ;  but 
the  sonnets  contained  in  the  volume  were  prefaced  by  one 
addressed  to  Bowles,  beginning — 

"  My  heart  has  thanked  thee,  Bowles  ;" 


316  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

and  to  this  sonnet  Lamb  here  alludes.  The  lines  cited  by  Lamb, 
beginning — 

"When  all  the  vanities  of  life's  brief  day,' 

are  unknown  to  me.  His  own  motto,  from  Massinger,  is  from 
A  Very  Woman,  or  The  Prince  of  Tarent.  He  quoted  the 
scene  in  which  it  occurs,  twelve  years  later,  in  his  Dramatic 
Specimens. 

LETTER  XV  (p.  49).— The  forthcoming  volume  of  1797  is 
here  under  discussion.  The  numbers  "40,  63,"  etc.,  refer  to 
the  pages  in  the  first  edition  of  Coleridge's  Poems,  1796. 
"  40  "  is  "  Absence,  A  Farewell  Ode ; "  "  63  "  a  sonnet,  "  To  the 
Autumnal  Moon  ;"  "84  "  "An  Imitation  from  Ossian."  In  spite 
of  Lamb's  remonstrances  these  were  omitted  from  the  second 
edition.  Of  the  "  Epitaph  on  an  Infant," 

"  Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade," 

Coleridge  was  indeed  showing  himself  "tenacious."  It  had 
already  appeared  in  the  Morning  Chronicle,  and  the  Watchman. 
What  lines  of  Lamb's  are  referred  to,  as  beginning — 

"  Laugh  all  that  weep," 

I  cannot  say.  They  did  not  appear  in  the  forthcoming  volumu. 
The  sonnet  on  Mrs.  Siddons  was  a  joint  composition  of  Lamb 
and  Coleridge. 

The  lines  "Dear  native  brook,"  published  first  in  the  Watch- 
man, are  the  well-known  sonnet  "To  the  River  Otter."  No. 
"  48  "  is  the  sonnet  "  To  Priestley,"  beginning — 

1 '  Tho'  roused  by  that  dark  Vizir  Riot  rude  " ; 

"  52  "  the  sonnet  "  To  Kosciusko"  ;  and  "53 "  that "  To  Fayette." 
The  last  five  lines  of  50  are  those  which  conclude  the  sonnet 
to  Sheridan.  Sara  Coleridge  had  a  share  in  one  poem  in  the 
edition  of  1796, — that  on  page  129,  here  referred  to,  called  "The 
Production  of  a  Young  Lady,"  on  the  subject  of  the  loss  of  a 
silver  thimble. 

LETTER  XVI  (p.  52). — The  "divine  chit-chat  of  Cowper" 
was,  as  we  learn  from  a  sentence  in  the  following  letter,  a  phrase 
of  Coleridge's  own.  Coleridge  uses  it  again  in  a  letter  to  John 
Thelwall  of  December  17  : — "But  do  not  let  us  introduce  an 
Act  of  Uniformity  against  poets,  I  have  room  enough  in  my 
brain  to  admire,  aye,  and  almost  equally,  the  head  and  fancy  of 
Akenside  and  the  heart  and  fancy  of  Bowles,  the  solemn  lordli- 
ness of  Milton,  and  the  divine  chit-chat  of  Cowper,  and  whatever 
a  man's  excellence  is,  that  will  be  likewise  his  fault "  (S.  T.  C. 
to  J.  Thelwall,  Bristol,  December  17, 1796.  Mr.  Cosens's  MSS.) 


NOTES.  317 

LETTER  XVII  (p.  52). — "  The  sainted  growing  woof,"  etc.  I 
have  not  traced  this  and  the  following  quotation  to  their  source. 
Coleridge's  Lines  on  Burns,  here  referred  to,  were  printed  in  a 
Bristol  paper,  and  afterwards  included  in  the  poem,  "To  a 
friend  who  declared  his  intention  of  writing  no  more  poetry. " 

LETTER  XIX  (p.  56). — The  lines  to  his  sister  were  after- 
wards withdrawn  by  Lamb  from  the  forthcoming  volume,  but 
were  printed  in  the  Monthly  Magazine  for  October  1797,  with 
the  simple  heading  "Sonnet  to  a  Friend."  They  will  be  found 
on  page  4  of  the  second  volume  of  this  series.  "  David  Hartley 
Coleridge "  was  now  in  his  second  year,  having  been  born 
September  19,  1796.  Priestley's  "  Examination  of  the  Scotch 
Doctors  "  was,  I  presume,  his  reply  to  Dr.  Jamieson  and  others 
who  had  criticised  his  History  of  the  Corruptions  of  Christianity. 

LETTER  XX  (p.  57). — Mention  has  been  already  made  of 
Coleridge's  contribution  to  Southey's  Joan  of  Arc  of  certain 
lines  in  the  second  book.  Coleridge  in  later  years  entirely 
endorsed  his  friend  Lamb's  opinion  of  the  lines.  On  reading 
them  again  he  says,  "  I  was  really  astonished  (1)  at  the  school- 
boy, wretched,  allegoric  machinery ;  (2)  at  the  transmogrifica- 
tion of  the  fanatic  virago  into  a  modern  novel-pawing  proselyte  of 
the  Age  of  Reason — a  Tom  Paine  in  petticoats  ;  (3)  at  the  utter 
want  of  all  rhythm  in  the  verse,  the  monotony  and  dead  plumb- 
down  of  the  pauses,  and  the  absence  of  all  bone,  muscle,  and 
sinew  in  the  single  lines." 

The  lines  were  omitted  from  all  editions  of  Southey's  Poem 
after  the  first,  but  were  reprinted  by  Coleridge  under  the  title 
of  "  The  Destiny  of  Nations  :  a  Vision,"  in  his  Sibylline  Leaves, 
in  1817,  and  will  be  found  in  all  complete  editions  of  Coleridge's 
Poems.  Lamb,  with  characteristic  certainty  of  taste,  selects  for 
praise  the  finest  lines  of  the  whole  composition — 

*'  For  she  had  lived  in  this  bad  world 
As  in  a  place  of  tombs, 
And  touch'd  not  the  pollutions  of  the  dead." 

Montauban  dancing  with  Roubignfs  tenants,  is  an  incident  in 
Mackenzie's  Julia  de  Roubigne — the  story  which  probably  sug- 
gested to  Lamb  to  attempt  prose  fiction. 

The  poem  of  Coleridge's  here  referred  to  as  the  "Dream  "  is 
that  afterwards  entitled  "  The  liaveu  :  a  Christmas  Tale  told 
by  a  schoolboy  to  his  little  brothers  and  sisters,"  first  printed 
in  the  Morning  Post  of  March  10, 1798,  and  afterwards  reprinted 
in  Sibylline  Leaves. 

My  poor  old  aunt.  See  Lamb's  verses  "  Written  on  the  Day 
of  my  Aunt's  Funeral"  (Poems,  Plays,  and  Essays,  p.  16). 


318  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

No  after  friendship  e'er  can  raise — from  John  Logan's  poem 
"  Ou  the  death  of  a  young  lady." 

John  Woolman.  Readers  of  the  Essays  of  Elia  will  remember 
the  reference  to  the  writings  of  John  Woolman,  the  Quaker,  iu 
the  essay  "A  Quaker's  Meeting." 

The  poem  in  Southey's  new  volume  which  Lamb  calls  the 
"Miniature,"  was  actually  called  "On  my  own  miniature 
Picture,"  the  "Robert"  being  of  course  Southey  himself. 
"Spirit  of  Spenser !  was  the  wanderer  wrong  ?"  is  the  last  line 
of  the  poem. 

Flocci-naiici-ujhat-do-ymi-call-'em-ists  I  maybe  deemed  worthy 
of  a  note.  "  Flocci,  nanci  "  is  the  beginning  of  a  rule  in  the  old 
Latin  grammars,  containing  a  list  of  words  signifying  "of  no 
account,"  floccus  being  a  lock  of  wool,  and  naucus  a  trifle. 
Lamb  was  recalling  a  sentence  in  one  of  Shenstone's  Letters  : — 
"I  loved  him  for  nothing  so  much  as  his  flocci-nauci-nihili- 
pili-ficatiou  of  money." 

Mr.  Rogers  is  indebted  for  his  story.  In  a  note  to  "  An 
Effusion  on  an  Autumnal  Evening,"  in  the  first  edition  of  his 
Poems,  Coleridge  had  asserted  that  the  tale  of  Florio  in  Rogers's 
Pleasures  of  Memory  was  to  be  found  in  the  Lochleven  of  Bruce. 
As  the  fruit  of  Lamb's  remonstrance  in  this  letter  Coleridge 
introduced  a  handsome  apology  to  Rogers  in  the  next  edition 
(1797),  admitting  that,  on  a  re-examination  of  the  two  poems, 
he  had  not  found  sufficient  resemblance  to  justify  the  charge. 

LETTER  XXI  (p.  63). — Did  the  wand  of  Merlin  wave}  Lamb 
refers  to  his  sonnet,  beginning  "Was  it  some  sweet  delight  of 
Fairy  ?"  In  the  1796  edition  of  Coleridge's  Poems  the  passage 
had  run  thus  : — 

"  Or  did  the  wizard  wand 
Of  Merlin  wave,  impregning  vacant  air, 
And  kindle  up  the  vision  of  a  smile 
In  those  blue  eyes?" 

This,  it  seems,  was  an  alteration  of  Coleridge's.  In  accordance 
with  Lamb's  instructions  in  this  letter,  the  passage  appeared  in 
the  1797  edition  without  the  "wizard  wand  of  Merlin."  See 
Poems,  etc.,  by  Ch.  Lamb,  p.  1.  Mr.  Merlin,  the  conjurer,  of 
Oxford  Street,  was  a  well-known  person  at  the  end  of  the  last 
century. 

LETTER  XXII  (p.  67). — Those  very  schoolboy-ish  verses.  See 
the  lines  "To  Sara  and  her  Samuel,"  Poems,  etc.,  of  Ch.  Lamb, 
p.  6. 

LETTER  XXIII  'p.  69). — Compare  with  previous  letter  of 
January  5,  1797. 


NOTES.  319 

LETTER  XXIV  (p.  73).— Charles  Lloyd,  the  son  of  a  banker 
at  Birmingham,  lived  under  Coleridge's  roof  at  Bristol,  and  at 
Nether-Stowey  from  the  autumn  of  1796  to  the  close  of  1797. 
He  was  all  his  life  subject  to  ill-health  and  persistent  melan- 
cholia. The  "  Dedication  "  to  which  Lamb  refers  is  the  one  to  his 
sister,  which  introduced  his  portion  of  the  volume  of  1797.  It 
ran  thus  : — "  The  few  following  poems,  creatures  of  the  Fancy 
and  the  Feeling,  in  life's  more  vacant  hours  ;  produced  for  the 
most  part  by  Love  in  Idleness,  are,  with  all  a  brother's  fond- 
ness, inscribed  to  Mary  Ann  Lamb,  the  author's  best  friend  and 
sister. " 

LETTER  XXV  (p.  75).  —  Tlie  above  was  Lamb's  poem,  "A 
Vision  of  Repentance,"  published  in  an  appendix  to  the  volume 
of  1797.  See  Poems,  etc.,  of  Lamb,  p.  13. 

LETTER  XXVI  (p.  76). — Our  little  look  was  the  volume  of 
1797,  which  now  appeared  with  the  following  title-page  : — 
"Poems,  by  S.  T.  Coleridge.  Second  edition.  To  which  are 
now  added  Poems  by  Charles  Lamb  and  Charles  Lloyd," 
followed  by  the  Latin  motto  of  Coleridge,  from  the  imaginary 
Epistles  of  Groscollias  : — "  Duplex  nobis  vinculum,  et  amicitiae 
et  similium  junctarumque  Camenarum  ;  quod  utinain  neque 
mors  sol  vat,  neque  temporis  longinquitas." 

The  Richardson  referred  to  in  this  and  other  letters  was 
evidently  some  one  in  Authority  at  the  India  House,  who  con- 
trolled the  important  matter  of  Lamb's  occasional  holidays. 

LETTER  XXVII  (p.  76).—"  Gryll  will  be  Gryll,  and  keep  his 
hoggish  mind." — Spenser,  Faery  Queen. 

Of  my  last  poem.  "The  Vision  of  Repentance,"  mentioned 
in  previous  letter.  Riding  behind  in  the  basket  alludes  to  its 
being  relegated  to  an  appendix,  with  certain  others  by  his 
two  companions. 

LETTER  XXVIII  (p.  78). — Life  of  John  Buncle,  by  Amory. 
See  reference  to  this  book,  a  great  favourite  of  Lamb's,  in  the 
Essay  on  "Imperfect  Sympathies." 

LETTER  XXIX  (p.  79). — Written  after  Lamb's  visit  to  Cole- 
ridge at  Nether-Stowey.  Talfourd  placed  this  letter  in  the 
year  1800,  and  has  been  followed  by  all  subsequent  editors. 
Yet,  strangely  enough,  the  summer  in  which  it  was  written  is 
placed  beyond  all  question  by  the  letter  itself.  The  visit  to 
Coleridge  of  which  it  tells  was  for  many  reasons  a  memorable 
one.  It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  arrival  of  Lamb  and  his 
sister  that  Coleridge  met  with  the  accident  to  his  leg  which 

Erevented  his  accompanying  them  on  a  walk,  and  drew  from 
im  the  well-known  lines,  entitled  "This  Lime-Tree  Bower  my 
Prison,"  containing  the  apostrophe  to   Larnb,    "My  gentle- 


320  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

hearted  Charles, "  under  which  Lamb  so  often  affected  to  winca 
An  allusion  to  Coleridge's  injured  leg,  it  will  be  seen,  occurs  in 
this  letter  ;  and  a  further  allusion  to  little  Hartley  cutting  his 
teeth,  adds  a  quite  independent  corroboration  of  the  date. 

LETTER  XXX  (p.  81). — A  little  passage  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's.  The  lines  thus  altered  are  from  the  "  Maid's  Tragedy," 
and  run  thus : — 

"  And  am  prouder 

That  I  was  once  your  love  (though  now  refused), 
Than  to  have  had  another  true  to  me." 

When  time  drives  flocks  from,  field  to  fold.  Perhaps  a  random 
recollection  of  a  couplet  from  the  song  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

LETTER  XXXI  (p.  83). — The  odd  coincidence  of  two  youngmen. 
In  the  joint  volume  of  1797  Charles  Lloyd  republished  a  series 
of  sonnets  on  the  death  of  his  grandmother,  Priscilla  Farmer. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  Lamb's  Hues,  "  The  Grandaine," 
appeared  in  the  same  volume. 

LETTER  XXXII  (p.  85). — /  had  well-nigh  quarrelled  with 
Charles  Lloyd.  This  sentence  seems  to  throw  light  upon  the 
origin  of  Lamb's  beautiful  verses,  composed  in  this  very  month, 
"The  Old  Familiar  Faces,"  and  to  suggest  a  different  interpre- 
tation of  them  from  that  usually  given.  In  my  Memoir  of 
Lamb  ("Men  of  Letters'  Series"),  I  had  supposed,  in  company 
with  many  others,  that  the  allusion  in  the  lines — 

"  I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man. 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly — 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces." — 

was  to  Coleridge,  between  whom  and  Lamb  the  relations  had, 
as  we  have  seen,  for  some  time  been  rather  strained.  But  it 
has  been  pointed  out  to  me  by  an  obliging  correspondent  that 
the  reference  in  the  lines  just  quoted  is  more  probably  to  this 
temporary  rupture  with  Lloyd  ;  and  that  the  "Friend  of  my 
bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother,"  in  the  last  stanza  but  one,  is 
addressed  to  Coleridge.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  that  this  should 
be  the  true  explanation,  and  I  gladly  accept  my  correspondent's 
correction. 

Coleridge,  as  the  address  at  the  end  of  the  letter  shows,  waa 
now  at  Shrewsbury,  on  a  visit  to  the  Unitarian  minister,  the  Rev. 
A.  Rowe,  whom  he  then  proposed  to  succeed  in  that  office. 

LETTER  XXXIII  (p.  87). — Lamb  had  been  introduced  to 
Southey  by  Coleridge,  as  long  back  as  1795  ;  but,  according  to 
Talfourd,  "no  intimacy  ensued  until  he  accompanied  Lloyd  in 
the  summer  of  1797  to  the  little  village  of  Burton,  near  Christ 


NOiES.  321 

CJhurch  in  Hampshire,  where  Sonthey  was  then  residing,  and 
where  they  spent  a  fortnight  as  the  poet's  guests." 

Sir  R.  Phillips  was  the  proprietor  of  the  Monthly  Magazine. 

Coleridge,  in  company  with  Wordsworth  and  his  sister,  left 
England  for  Germany  in  September  1798.  Coleridge  was  absent 
a  little  less  than  a  year.  It  was  perhaps  well  for  the  future 
relations  between  him  and  Lamb  that  this  temporary  separation 
took  place.  Poetic  rivalry  and  poetic  criticism  freely  indulged 
on  both  sides  had  left  bitterness  behind.  The  whole  pitiable 
story  may  be  read,  if  it  is  worth  reading,  in  the  pages  of  Cottle's 
Early  Recollections  of  Coleridge.  Cottle  tells  us  that  Coleridge 
forwarded  to  him  Lamb's  letter,  containing  the  sarcastic  Theses 
here  propounded,  adding  "these  young  visionaries "  (meaning 
Lamb  and  Lloyd)  "will  do  each  other  no  good."  The  Theses 
were  prefaced  by  the  following  remarks  : — "Learned  Sir,  my 
friend,  presuming  on  our  long  habits  of  friendship,  and  em- 
boldened further  by  your  late  liberal  permission  to  avail  myself 
of  your  correspond'ence  in  case  I  want  any  knowledge  (which  I 
intend  to  do,  when  I  have  no  Encyclopaedia  or  Ladies'  Magazine 
at  hand  to  refer  to  in  any  matter  of  science),  I  now  submit  to 
yonr  enquiries  the  above  theological  propositions,  to  be  by  you 
defended  or  oppugned  (or  both)  in  the  schools  of  Gemiany, 
whither  I  am  told  you  are  departing,  to  the  utter  dissatisfaction 
of  your  native  Devonshire,  and  regret  of  universal  England ; 
but  to  my  own  individual  consolation,  if,  through  the  channel 
of  your  wished  return,  learned  Sir,  my  friend,  may  be  transmitted 
to  this  our  island,  from  those  famous  theological  wits  of  Leipsic 
and  Gottingen,  any  rays  of  illumination,  in  vain  to  be  derived 
from  the  home  growth  of  our  English  halls  and  colleges. 
Finally  wishing,  learned  Sir,  that  you  may  see  Schiller,  and 
swing  in  a  wood  (ride  Poems)  and  sit  upon  a  tun,  and  eat  fat 
hams  of  Westphalia, — I  remain  your  friend  and  docile  pupil  to 
instruct,  CBAS.  LAMB." 

LETTER  XXXIV  (p.  90). — Rosamund  Gray,  by  Charles 
Lamb,  was  published  in  this  year,  1798. 

LKTTKR  XXXV  (p.  90). — The  Eclogue  here  criticised  was  that 
entitled  The  Ruined  Cottage.  See  note  to  "  Rosamund  Gray  "  in 
Poems,  Plays,  etc.,  p.  388. 

How  dues  your  Calendar  prosper?  There  would  seem  to 
kave  been  an  idea  of  calling  the  Annual  Anthology  a  Calendar 
or  Almanack  of  the  Muses.  Sonthey  thus  opens  his  preface  to 
the  first  volume  of  the  work: — "Similar  collections  to  the 
present  have  long  been  known  in  France  and  Germany  under 
the  title  of  Almanacks  of  the  Muses." 

LETTER  XXXVI  (p.  93). — Southey,  who  was  now  taking 
Coleridge's  place  as  Lamb's  chief  literary  correspondent,  had 
Y 


322  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

sent  two  more  Eclogues  for  his  opinion — The  Wedding,  and 
The  last  of  the  Family. 

LETTER  XXXVII  (p.  95).— The  Lyrical  Ballads,  the  joint 
production  of  "Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  had  just  made  its 
appearance,  published  by  Joseph  Cottle,  at  Bristol.  It  con- 
tained four  poems  by  Coleridge,  one  being  the  "Ancient  Mariner." 
Lamb's  pre-eminence  as  a  critic,  at  this  early  age  of  three-and- 
twenty,  appears  wonderfully  in  his  remarks  upon  this  poem. 
"That  last  poem,  which  is  yet  one  of  the  finest  written," 
evidently  refers  to  Wordsworth's  "Lines  written  a  few  miles 
above  Tintern  Abbey,"  which  come  last  in  the  little  duodecimo 
volume. 

LETTER  XXXVIII  (p.  96).— The  lines  entitled  "Mystery 
of  God,"  or  "  Living  without  God  in  the  world,"  originally 
appeared  in  the  first  volume  of  Cottle's  Annual  Anthology, 
published  this  year,  edited  by  Southey.  They  will  be  found  in 
Poems,  Plays,  etc.,  p.  23.  The  sonnet  referred  to  would  seem 
to  be  the  one  to  his  sister,  already  given,  "Friend  of  my 
earliest  years."  One  of  the  titles  proposed  for  the  Anthology 
was  "  Gleanings."  It  was  in  fact  a  poetical  miscellany  to  which 
Coleridge,  Southey,  Lloyd,  and  others,  including  the  Cottles, 
contributed.  Two  volumes  only  were  published.  Pratt,  the 
editor  of  Pratt's  Gleanings  through  Wales,  Holland,  and  West- 
phalia (1795),  was  a  bookseller  at  Bath,  who  published  novels 
and  poems,  as  well  as  various  compilations. 

Southey  continued  to  send  his  poems,  as  he  wrote  them,  for 
Lamb's  criticisms.  The  "  Witch  Ballad  "  was  "  The  Old  Woman 
of  Berkeley,"  written  in  this  year,  us  was  also  "  Bishop  Bruno. " 
Lamb's  "Witch"  was  the  poem  originally  intended  as  an 
episode  in  John  Woodvil,  but  afterwards  withdrawn  and  printed 
separately.  See  Poems,  Plays,  etc.,  p.  66.  The  "  Dying  Lover  " 
is  the  young  Philip  Fairford  mentioned  in  the  poem.  George 
Dyer  was  at  this  time  preparing  a  volume  of  poems.  The  lines 
criticised  by  Lamb  occur  in  an  ode  "  addressed  to  Dr.  Robert 
Anderson  "  (Poems,  by  George  Dyer  :  Longman  and  Co.,  1501). 
Dyer  did  not  accept  his  friend's  correction.  The  line  remains — 

"Dark  is  the  poet's  eye — but  shines  his  name." 

The  "  two  noble  Englishmen  "  were  of  course  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge.  Coleridge,  as  is  well  known,  parted  from  Words- 
worth an.'l  his  sister  while  they  were  still  at  Hamburgh. 

LETTER  XXXIX  (p.  99). — John  May  was  a  gentleman  whose 
acquaintance  Southey  had  made  during  his  first  visit  to  Por- 
tugal, and  who  was  thenceforth  one  of  Southey 's  most  intimate 
friends  and  frequent  correspondents. 


NOTES.  323 

LETTER  XLI  (p.  102). — Most  of  Soutbey's  poems  here  referred 
to  will  be  found  in  vols.  ii.  and  vi.  of  tbe  ten-volume  edition, 
collected  by  himself,  1837.  "  The  Parody  "  is  the  ballad  called 
" The  Surgeon's  Warning. "  "Cousin  Margaret"  is  the  poem 
"  To  Margaret  Hill." 

LETTER  XLII  (p.  104). — See  Southey's  lines  "To  a  Spider," 
vol.  ii.  of  the  edition  just  named. 

Sam  Le  Grice.  For  some  amusing  particulars  concerning 
him  see  Leigh  Hunt's  Autobiography,  chap.  iii.  "He  was 
the  maddest  of  all  the  great  boys  in  my  time :  clever,  full  of 
address,  and  not  hampered  by  modesty.  Remote  rumours, 
not  lightly  to  be  heard,  fell  on  our  ears  respecting  pranks  of  his 
among  the  nurses'  daughters.  He  had  a  fair  handsome  face, 
with  delicate  aquiline  nose  and  twinkling  eyes.  I  remember 
his  astonishing  me  when  I  was  'a  new  boy,'  with  sending  me 
for  a  bottle  of  water,  which  he  proceeded  to  pour  down  the  back 
of  G.,  a  grave  Deputy  Grecian.  On  the  master  asking  him  one 
day  why  he,  of  all  the  boys,  had  given  up  no  exercise  (it  was  a 
particular  exercise  that  they  were  bound  to  do  in  the  course  of 
a  long  set  of  holidays)  he  said  he  had  had  a  'lethargy.'"  He 
must,  however,  have  had  a  good  heart.  See  the  previous  letter 
of  Lamb  to  Coleridge  in  which  he  tells  of  Sam  Le  Grice  giving 
up  every  hour  of  his  time  to  amuse  the  poor  old  father,  in  the 
sad  period  following  the  death  of  Lamb's  mother. 

LETTER  XLV  (p.  109). — Lamb  had  been  visiting  his  old 
haunts,  near  Blakesware  in  Herts.  See  note  to  "  Blakesmoor  in 
Hertfordshire  ; "  Essays  of  Elia,  p.  409. 

Gebor  is  Lamb's  spelling  of  "  Gebir  " — Lander's  poem,  which 
was  published  in  this  year. 

LETfKR  XLVI  (p.  110).  — Thomas  Manning,  whose  name 
appears  here  for  the  first  time  as  Lamb's  correspondent,  was  so 
remarkable  a  man  as  to  warrant  my  giving  a  few  partictilai-s  of 
his  life,  taken  from  the  Memoir  prefixed  to  his  "Journey  to 
Lhasa,"  in  1811-12  (George  Bogle  and  Thomas  Manning's 
Journey  to  Thibet  and  Lhasa,  by  C.  R.  Markham,  1876). — "He 
was  the  second  sou  of  the  Rev.  William  Manning,  Rector  of  Diss 
in  Norfolk,  and  was  born  at  his  father's  first  living  of  Broome,  in 
the  same  county,  on  the  8th  of  November  1772.  Owing  to  ill- 
healtli  in  early  life  he  was  obliged  to  forego  the  advantages  of 
a  public  school ;  but  under  his  father's  roof  he  was  a  close 
student  cf  both  classics  and  mathematics,  and  became  an  eager 
disciple  of  the  philosophy  of  Plato.  On  his  recovery  he  went 
to  Cains  College,  Cambridge,  and  studied  intensely,  especially 
mathematics.  While  at  Cambridge  he  published  a  work  on 
Algebra,  and  a  smaller  book  on  Arithmetic.  He  passed  the 
final  examination,  and  was  expected  to  be  at  least  second 


324  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

wrangler,  but  his  strong  repugnance  to  oaths  and  tests  debarred 
him  from  academic  honours  and  preferments,  and  he  left  the 
university  without  a  degree." 

He  continued  to  reside  at  Cambridge,  as  tutor  at  Cains,  many 
years  after  the  time  when  he  should  have  graduated,  and  was 
there  when  Lamb  first  made  his  acquaintance,  through  the 
introduction  of  Charles  Lloyd,  in  the  autumn  of  1799.  "After 
he  had  lived  at  Cambridge  for  some  years  he  began  to  brood 
over  the  mysterious  empire  of  China,  and  devoted  his  time  to 
an  investigation  of  the  language  and  arts  of  the  Chinese,  and 
the  state  of  their  country.  He  resolved  to  enter  the  Celestial 
Empire  at  all  hazards,  and  to  prosecute  his  researches  till  death 
stopped  him,  or  until  he  should  return  with  success.  To  enable 
him  to  undertake  this  hazardous  enterprise  he  studied  the 
Chinese  language  under  the  tuition  of  Dr.  Hagar  in  France, 
and  afterwards,  with  the  aid  of  a  Chinese,  in  London.  "When 
the  English  travellers  were  seized  by  Napoleon  on  the  breaking 
out  of  war  in  1803,  Manning  obtained  leave  to  quit  France 
entirely  owing  to  the  respect  in  which  his  undertaking  was  held 
by  the  learned  men  at  Paris.  His  passport  was  the  only  one 
that  Napoleon  ever  signed  for  an  Englishman  to  go  to  England 
after  war  began." 

The  rest  of  Manning's  adventures,  and  the  result  of  his 
extraordinary  expedition  to  Lhasa  in  1811,  as  well  as  Manning's 
own  Journal  kept  during  his  travels,  will  be  found  in  Mr. 
Clement  Markham's  volume. 

Manning  was  afterwards  Chinese  Interpreter  to  Lord  Amherst's 
Embassy  in  1817.  He  then  "returned  to  England,  after  an 
absence  of  nearly  twelve  years,  apparently  a  disappointed  man. 
He  was  in  Italy  from  1827  to  1829,  and  then  went  to  live  in 
strict  retirement  at  Bexley,  whence  he  removed  to  a  cottage 
near  Dartford,  called  Orange  Grove.  He  led  a  very  eccentric 
life.  It  is  said  that  he  never  furnished  his  cottage,  but  only 
had  a  few  chairs,  one  carpet,  and  a  large  library  of  Chinese 
books.  He  wore  a  milky-white  beard  down  to  his  waist."  He 
died  at  Bath  on  the  2d  of  May  1840,  aged  sixty-eight. 

The  Title  of  the  Play. — Lamb  had  at  first  intended  to  call 
his  play,  John  IVoodvil,  by  a  different  name — Pride's  Cure. 

CHAPTER  IL 

1800-1809. 

LETTER  XLVIII  (p.  113). — Mr.  Wyndham's  unhappy  composi- 
tion. Coleridge's  criticism  on  Wyndham's  note,  contributed  to 
the  Mtrrning  Post  in  January  1800,  is  reprinted  in  the  Essay* 
on  his  own  Times  (i.  261). 


NOTES.  325 

LETTER  XLIX  (p.  114).—"  War,  and  Nature,  and  Mr.  Pitt." 
Evidently  some  popular  allegorical  print  of  the  day. 

LETTER  L  (p.  115). — Supposed  manuscript  of  Burton.  See 
"Curious  Fragments,  extracted  from  a  common-place  book 
which  belonged  to  Robert  Burton  "  (Poems,  Plays,  and  Essays, 
p.  197). 

Olivia  was  Charles  Lloyd's  sister. 

LETTER  LI  (p.  116). — Hetty  died  on  Friday  night.  Charles 
and  Mary's  one  servant. 

LETTER  LII  (p.  117). —  To  lodge  with  a  friend  in  town. 
John  Matthew  Gutch,  a  schoolfellow  of  Lamb's  at  Christ's 
Hospital,  afterwards  the  editor  of  Farley's  Bristol  Journal. 
The  rooms  were  in  Southampton  Buildings.  Lamb  lodged 
there  occasionally  for  several  years  to  come.  See  Letter  to 
Coleridge,  later  on,  p.  134. 

LETTER  LIII  (p.  118). — My  Enemy's  £ is,  I  am  afraid, 

a  variation  upon  "My  enemy's  dog"  in  a  well-known  speech 
from  King  Lear. 

Mary  Hayes.  Mary  Hayes  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Godwin 
and  his  wife,  Mary  Wollstonecraft.  She  wrote  in  the  Monthly 
Magazine,  also  a  novel  called  Emma  Courtenay.  ' '  An  uncom- 
mon book.  Mary  Hayes  is  an  agreeable  woman  and  a  God- 
winite."  (Southey,  Life  and  Correspondence,  i.  305.) 

LETTER  LV  (p.  120). — Lamb  is  quite  enough.  There  was 
evidently  a  disposition  in  the  early  days  of  Lamb's  friendships 
to  spell  his  name  with  a  final  e.  I  have  seen  it  thus  mis- 
spelt in  magazines  of  the  time. 

By  terming  me  gentle-hearted  in  print.  See  Coleridge's  lines, 
"This  Lime-Tree  Bower  my  Prison,"  first  published  in  the 
Annual  Anthology. 

I  have  hit  off  the  following.  See  "A  Ballad:  Noting  the 
Difference  of  Rich  and  Poor. "  Poems,  Plays,  and  Essays,  p.  68. 

WSs  tragedy.  "  The  Borderers."  The  second  edition  of  the 
Lyrical  Ballads  was  published  this  year. 

LKTTER  LVI  (p.  123).  —  His  friend  Frend.  The  Rev. 
William  Trend,  who  was  expelled  the  University  of  Cambridge 
for  tenets  savouring  of  Unitarianism. 

George  Dyer.  See  note  to  the  Essay,  "  Oxford  in  the  Vaca- 
tion." Essays  of  Elia,  p.  379. 

LETTER  LVI  I  (p.  125). — Dr.  Anderson.  James  Anderson 
(1739-1808),  writer  on  Agriculture  and  Politico  -  Economical 
subjects. 

LETTER  LX  (p.  129). — The  references  to  poems  in  this  letter 
are  to  the  second  volume  of  the  Annual  Anthology,  just  pub- 


326  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

lislied.  "  Blenheim  "  is,  of  course,  Southey's  well-known  ballad; 
"  Lewti  "  and  the  "  Raven  "  are  by  Coleridge. 

Your  141st  page  refers  to  the  poem  ' ' '  This  Lime-Tree  Bower 
my  Prison,'  a  poem  addressed  to  Charles  Lamb,  of  the  India 
House,  London,"  in  which  Lamb  was  styled,  "  my  gentle-hearted 
Charles." 

LETTER  LXII  (p.  134).  —  On  a  visit  to  Grattan.  Lamb's  own 
slip  of  the  pen  for  Curran.  See  Mr.  Kegan  Paul's  Life  of  Godicin. 

LETTER  LXIII  (p.  135). — Helen.  These  verses  were  by  Mary 
Lamb. 

Alfred,  an  epic  poem  by  Joseph  Cottle  of  Bristol,  the  book- 
seller and  poet. 

LETTER  LXIV  (p.  139). — A  "Conceit  of  Diabolic  Possession." 
See  the  lines  afterwards  entitled  "  Hypochondriacus  "  (Poems, 
Plays,  and  Essays,  p.  204). 

LETTER  LXVIII  (p.  145). — A  pleasant  hand,  one  Rickman. 
John  Rickman  (1771-1840),  for  many  years  Clerk- Assistant  at  the 
Table  of  the  House  of  Commons,  an  eminent  statistician,  and 
author  of  the  system  for  taking  the  population  census,  besides 
many  other  inventions  of  greater  or  less  utility.  He  became 
the  intimate  friend  of  Lamb,  Southey,  and  others  of  that  set. 

Mr.  Crisp  was  a  barber  over  whose  shop  Manning  lodged, 
in  St.  Mary's  Passage,  Cambridge. 

My  Play.     "  John  Woodvil." 

LETTER  LXXI  (p.  150). — How  to  abridge  the  Epilogue.  The 
epilogue  Lamb  was  writing  for  Godwin's  play,  Antonio.  The 
next  two  or  three  letters  deal  with  the  production  and  the  failure 
of  the  unfortunate  drama.  See  Mr.  Kegan  Paul's  Life  of 
Godwin. 

LETTER  LXXV  (p.  157). —  The  Preface  must  be  expunged. 
In  the  British  Museum  is  Lamb's  copy  of  Dyer's  Poems.  It 
contains  the  cancelled  preface,  and  on  the  margin  of  advertise- 
ment, explaining  how  the  book  begins  at  p.  Ixix.  instead  of 
p.  i,  Lamb  has  written,  "One  copy  of  this  cancelled  Preface, 
snatched  out  of  the  fire,  is  prefixed  to  this  volume."  The  can- 
celled preface  ran  to  sixty-six  pages,  not  eighty,  as  Lamb  says 
to  Manning.  Writing  to  G.  C.  Bedford,  22d  March  1817, 
respecting  one  of  his  books  then  printing,  Southey  says,  "Now, 
pray,  be  speedy  with  the  cancels.  On  such  an  occasion  Lamb 
gave  G.  Dyer  the  title  of  Cancellarius  Mag?ius."  (Letters  of 
Ji.  S.  i.  428.)  For  this  interesting  reference  I  am  indebted  to 
my  friend  Mr.  J.  Dykes  Campbell. 

LETTER  LXXVI  (p.  159).— Miss  Wesley.  Daughter  of  Samuel 
and  niece  of  John  Wesley.  "Eccentric  but  estimable,"  says 
H.  Crabb  Robinson  in  Diary,  27th  May  1812. 


NOTES.  327 

One  Miss  Benjay.  Miss  Elizabeth  Benger,  authoress  of  vari- 
ous poems  and  histories.  See  Dictionary  of  National  Biography, 
iv.  221. 

LETTER  LXXVII  (p.  162). — The  "second  volume  "  that  Lamb 
had  borrowed  was  the  second  volume  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads, 
then  just  published.  The  "  Song  of  Lucy  "  is  clearly  the  lovely 
lyric  beginning — 

"She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways." 

Lamb's  criticism  on  the  second  title  of  the  "Ancient  Mariner  " 
proved  effectual  in  the  end,  but  the  title  was  retained  until  the 
publication  of  the  Sibylline  Leaves  in  1817.  The  stanzas  referred 
to  by  Lamb  as  "  The  Mad  Mother,"  are  those  beginning  with 
the  words,  "  Her  eyes  are  wild."  Wordsworth  in  later  editions 
dropped  the  original  title. 

This  letter  to  Wordsworth  provoked  a  reply  from  the  poet, 
Deferred  to  in  the  following  singularly  interesting  letter  of  Lamb 
to  Manning,  which  unfortunately  came  into  my  hands  too  late 
for  insertion  in  the  text,  but  %vitli  which  I  most  gladly  enrich 
my  notes.  The  original,  from  which  I  have  printed  it,  was 
lent  me  by  Rev.  C.  R,  Manning,  the  nephew  of  Thomas  Manning. 
It  was  no  doubt  omitted  by  Talfourd  because  Wordsworth  was 
still  living  wheu  the  Letters  and  the  Final  Memorials  were 
published : — 

To  Thos.  Manning, 
Diss,  Norfolk. 

February  15,  1801. 

I  had  need  be  cautious  henceforward  what  opinion  I  give  of 
the  Lyrical  Ballads.  All  the  North  of  England  are  in  a  turmoil. 
Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  have  already  declared  a  state  of 
war.  I  lately  received  from  Wordsworth  a  copy  of  the  second 
volume,  accompanied  by  an  acknowledgement  of  having  received 
from  me  many  months  since  a  copy  of  a  certain  Tragedy,  with 
excuses  for  not  having  made  any  acknowledgement  sooner,  it 
being  owing  to  an  "  almost  insurmountable  aversion  from  Letter- 
writing."  This  letter  1  answered  in  due  form  and  time,  and 
enumerated  several  of  the  passages  which  had  most  affected  me, 
adding,  unfortunately,  that  no  single  piece  had  moved  me  so 
forcibly  as  the  "Ancient  Mariner,"  "The  Mad  Mother,"  or  the 
"  Lines  at  Tintern  Abbey."  The  Post  did  not  sleep  a  moment. 
I  received  almost  instantaneously  a  long  letter  of  four  sweating 
pages  from  my  Reluctant  Letter- Writer,  the  purport  of  which 
was,  that  he  was  sorry  his  2d  vol.  had  not  given  me  more 
pleasure  (Devil  a  hint  did  I  give  that  it  had  not  pleased  me], 
and  "was  compelled  to  wish  that  my  range  of  sensibility  was 
more  extended,  being  obliged  to  believe  that  I  should  receive 


328  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

large  influxes  of  happiness  and  happy  Thoughts"  (I  suppose 
from  the  L.  B. ) — With  a  deal  of  stuff  about  a  certain  Union  of 
Tenderness  and  Imagination,  which  in  the  sense  he  used 
Imagination  was  not  the  characteristic  of  Shakspeare,  but  which 
Milton  possessed  in  a  degree  far  exceeding  other  Poets  :  which 
Union,  as  the  highest  species  of  Poetry,  and  chiefly  deserving 
that  name,  "He  was  most  proud  to  aspire  to";  then  illustrat- 
ing the  said  Union  by  two  quotations  from  his  own  2d  vol. 
(which  I  had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  miss).  1st  Specimen 
— a  father  addresses  his  son  : — 

"When  thon 

First  earnest  into  the  World,  as  it  befalls 
To  new-born  Infants,  thou  didst  sleep  away 
Two  days  :  and  Blessings  from  thy  father's  Tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee." 

The  lines  were  thus  undermarked,  and  then  followed  "This 
Passage,  as  combining  in  an  extraordinary  degree  that  Union  of 
Imagination  and  Tenderness  which  I  am  speaking  of,  I  consider 
as  one  of  the  Best  I  ever  wrote  !" 

2d  Specimen. — A  youth,  after  years  of  absence,  revisits  his 
native  place,  and  thinks  (as  most  people  do)  that  there  has 
been  strange  alteration  in  his  absence  : — 

"  And  that  the  rocks 
And  everlasting  Hills  themselves  were  changed." 

You  see  both  these  are  good  Poetry  :  but  after  one  has  been 
reading  Shakspeare  twenty  of  the  best  years  of  one's  life,  to 
have  a  fellow  start  up,  and  prate  about  some  unknown  quality 
which  Shakspeare  possessed  in  a  degree  inferior  to  Milton  and 
somebody  else  I!  This  was  not  to  be  all  my  castigation. 
Coleridge,  who  had  not  written  to  me  some  months  before, 
starts  up  from  his  bed  of  sickness  to  reprove  me  for  my  hardy 
presumption  :  four  long  pages,  equally  sweaty  and  more  tedious, 
came  from  him  ;  assuring  me  that,  when  the  works  of  a  man  of 
true  genius  such  as  W.  undoubtedly  was,  do  not  please  me  at 
first  sight,  I  should  suspect  the  fault  to  lie  "in  me  and  not  in 
them,"  etc.  etc.  etc.  etc.  etc.  What  am  I  to  do  with  such  people  I 
I  certainly  shall  write  them  a  very  merry  Letter.  Writing  to 
you,  I  may  say  that  the  2d  vol.  has  no  such  pieces  as  the 
three  I  enumerated.  It  is  full  of  original  thinking  and  an 
observing  mind,  but  it  does  not  often  make  you  laugh  or  cry. — 
It  too  artfully  aims  at  simplicity  of  expression.  And  you  some- 
times doubt  if  Simplicity  be  not  a  cover  for  Poverty.  The  best 
Piece  in  it  I  will  send  you,  being  short.  I  have  grievously 
offended  my  friends  in  the  North  by  declaring  my  undue  pre- 
ference ;  but  I  need  not  fear  you  : — 


NOTES.  329 

*'  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  Springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  few  (sic}  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet,  hy  a  mossy  stone, 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye. 
Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown  ;  and  few  could  know, 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be. 
But  she  is  in  the  grave,  and  oh  1 

The  difference  to  me." 

This  is  choice  and  genuine,  and  so  are  many,  many  more.  But 
one  does  not  like  to  have  'em  rammed  down  one's  throat. 
"Pray,  take  it — it's  very  good — let  me  help  you — eat  faster." 

The  coarse  epithet  of  "pin-point."  In  the  first  version  of  the 
Poet's  Epitaph,  the  line  to  which  we  are  now  accustomed— 

"Thy  ever-dwindling  soul  away," 
ran  thus : — 

"Thy  pin-point  of  a  soul  away." 

LETTER  LXXVIII  (p.  164). — Barbara  Lewthwaite.  The  little 
heroine  of  Wordsworth's  poem  "  The  Pet  Lamb." 

LETTEK  LXXIX  (p.  166). — George  Dyer's  Poetns:  Longman 
and  Rees,  1801.  The  passage  about  Shakspeare  from  the  long 
poem  caRed  "Poetic  Sympathies"  in  this  volume,  beginning 

"Yet,  muse  of  Shakspeare,  whither  wouldst  thou  fly 
With  hurried  step,  and  dove-like,  trembling  eye  ?  " 

is  hardly  worth  quoting  further,  but  may  be  referred  to  by  the 
curious. 

John  Stoddart,  Esq.  John,  afterwards  Sir  John,  Stoddart,  was 
the  brother  of  Mrs.  William  Hazlitt  (the  first  W.  H. )  He  was 
a  writer  in  the  Times  —  quarrelled  with  Walter,  and  set  up 
the  New  Times,  a  short-lived  venture,  and  went  to  Malta, 
where  he  was  Chief  Justice.  While  there  he  invited  S.  T. 
Coleridge  to  visit  him,  and  the  invitation  was  accepted. 

My  back  tingles  from  the  northern  castigation.  Ihis  allusion, 
hitherto  obscure,  is  now  made  quite  clear  by  the  letter  to 
Manning,  given  in  the  preceding  note. 

/  am  going  to  change  my  lodgings.  The  Lambs  were  now 
about  to  leave  Southampton  Buildings  (see  Letter  LXII.)for 
Mitre  Court  Buildings,  in  the  Temple,  destined  to  be  their 
home  for  the  next  eight  years. 


330  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

LETTER  LXXX  (p.  169). — Baron  Maseres,  Cursitor  Baron  of 
the  Exchequer.  See  the  Elia  Essay,  "  The  Old  Benchers  of  the 
Inner  Temple." 

LETTER  LXXXII  (p.  170).— Walter  Wilson,  bookseller,  and 
aftewards  writer,  best  known  as  the  author  of  the  Memoirs  of 
Defoe,  to  which  Lamh  was  later  to  contribute  some  interesting 
critical  matter. 

LETTER  LXXXIII  (p.  171). — See  Lamb's  Essay  on  "News- 
papers Thirty-five  Years  Ago,"  and  the  note  upon  it  in  this 
edition.  He  there  tells  us  that  this  epigram  gave  the  unfor- 
tunate Albion  its  coup  de  grace. 

LETTER  LXXXV  (p.  175).  —  Your  story.  The  story  of 
Godwin's  later  play  of  Faulkener  would  seem  to  be  indicated 
here.  That  play  was  built  upon  Defoe's  Roxana,  and  Lamb 
here  suggests  that  the  strange  history  of  Richard  Savage's 
parentage  might  advantageously  be  borrowed.  Faulkener  was 
not  produced  till  1807,  and  then  unsuccessfully.  The  following 
letter  evidently  refers  to  the  plot  of  the  same  proposed  drama. 

LETTER  LXXXVII  (p.  179).—  My  Play,  "John  Woodvil." 
The  copy  sent  to  Manning  in  the  handwriting  of  Mary  Lamb, 
with  various  omissions  marked  and  corrections  added  in  the 
handwriting  of  Charles,  is  before  me,  kindly  lent  by  Mr.  C.  R. 
Manning  of  Diss.  In  the  inside  cover  of  the  MS.  is  pasted  a 
sheet  of  paper,  on  which  Lamb  has  written  as  follows : — 

Mind  this  goes  for  a  letter.  (Acknowledge  it  directly,  if 
only  in  ten  words.) 

Dear  Manning — (I  shall  want  to  hear  this  comes  safe.)  I 
have  scratched  out  a  good  deal  as  you  will  see.  Generally, 
what  I  have  rejected  was  either  false  in  feeling,  or  a  violation  of 
character — mostly  of  the  first  sort  I  will  here  just  instance  in 
the  concluding  few  lines  of  the  "  Dying  Lover's  Story,"  which 
completely  contradicted  his  character  of  silent  and  unrcproach- 
ful.  I  hesitated  a  good  deal  what  copy  to  send  you,  and  at 
.last  resolved  to  send  the  worst,  because  you  are  familiar  with 
it,  and  can  make  it  out ;  and  a  stranger  would  find  so  much 
difficulty  in  doing  it,  that  it  would  give  him  more  pain  than 
pleasure. 

This  is  compounded  precisely  of  the  two  persons'  hands  j-ou 
requested  it  should  be. — Yours  sincerely,  C.  LAMB. 

I  will  now  transcribe  the  ''Londoner."  I  have  printed  thia 
letter,  with  the  accompanying  note  by  Talfourd,  but  in  point 
of  fact  the  "Londoner"  was  never  published  in  the  Reflector. 
See  Poems,  Plays,  and  Essays,  p.  301. 


NOTES.  331 

LETTER  LXXXIX  (p.  180).— This  letter  is  written  to  Cole- 
ridge  on  the  return  of  Charles  and  Mary  from  paying  him  a 
holiday  visit  at  Keswick.  Thomas  Clarkson  was  then  residing 
in  a  cottage  on  Ulswater.  See  following  letter  to  Manning. 

LETTER  XCI  (p.  181). — Fenwick  is  a  ruined  man.  See  Elia 
Essays,  "The  Two  Races  of  Men,"  and  " Newspapers  Thirty- 
five  Years  Ago." 

LETTER  XCII  (p.  185).— The  first  of  several  letters  in  this 
correspondence  written  in  Latin  ;  and  in  the  present  instance, 
as  would  appear,  in  reply  to  a  challenge  from  Coleridge.  The 
letter  as  hitherto  printed  is  full  of  certain  mistakes  for  which 
Lamb  is  clearly  not  responsible.  These  I  have  ventured  to 
correct,  but  I  have  not  thought  it  desirable  to  amend  the 
Latinity  otherwise  in  passages  where  it  is  certainly  not  im- 
maculate. The  grammar  and  idiom  are  frequently  so  lax  as 
to  jeopardise  the  writer's  meaning,  but  with  the  assistance  of 
my  friend  Dr.  Calvert  of  Shrewsbury,  I  hope  I  have  disen- 
tangled most  of  Lamb's  somewhat  involved  allusions.  The 
letter  is  interesting  as  bearing  reference  to  several  events  of 
interest  in  the  lives  of  both  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth.  It 
bears  date  October  9,  1802.  A  few  days  earlier,  on  October  2, 
Wordsworth  had  been  married  to  Mary  Hutchinson.  On  the 
same  day  (possibly  by  mere  coincidence)  Coleridge  had  printed 
in  the  Morning  Post  the  first  version  of  his  splendid  Ode,  entitled 
"Dejection."  In  this  version  the  person  addressed  throughout 
is  a  certain  "Edmund,"  and  not,  as  in  the  later  revision  of  the 
poem,  the  "Lady,"  addressed  in  the  often  quoted  lines — 

"  0  Lady,  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  Life  alone  does  Nature  live." 

That  "  Edniund,"  the  writer's  dearest  friend  and  a  great  poet, 
could  be  no  other  than  Wordsworth  we  might  be  sure  from 
internal  evidence,  even  if  we  had  not  in  this  letter  a  curious 
confirmation.  The  Carmina  Chamouniana  refer  to  Coleridge's 
"  Hymn  before  Sunrise,  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni,"  then  recently 
printed  for  the  first  time  in  the  Morning  Post.  Lamb's  allusions 
will  be  intelligible  to  those  who  recall  the  passage  beginning — 

"  Who  bade  the  sun 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? 
God  !  God  !  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Utter  !  the  ice-plain  bursts,  and  answers  God  ! " 

Lamb's  flippant  parallel  "Tod,  Tod,"  should  be,  I  am  con- 
vinced, "Dodd,  Dodd" — the  crime  and  punishment  of  that 


332  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

certainly  "  unhappy  Doctor  "  being  within  the  memory  of  many 
persons  then  still  living. 

The  comparisons  of  the  First  Consul  with  the  Roman  Emperors 
refer  to  a  series  of  Essays  then  recently  published  by  Coleridge 
in  the  Morning  Post.  They  are  reprinted  in  the  Essays  on 
his  oion  Times:  Pickering,  1850  (vol.  ii.  p.  478-514).  The 
allusion  to  the  Ludu-s  Americanus  must  perhaps  remain  un- 
solved. The  "Flying  Opossum"  was  little  Derwent  Coleridge, 
then  just  entering  his  third  year.  The  child's  vain  attempts 
to  pronounce  the  name  of  this  creature  in  his  picture-book,  to 
which  he  never  attained  nearer  than  "Pi-pos,"  had  fastened 
this  nick-name  upon  the  little  fellow.  " Pi-pos"  will  recur  in 
many  of  the  succeeding  letters. 

I  append  a  translation,  partly  paraphrased,  of  the  entire 
letter  :— 

My  very  dear  Friend — "  Pay  the  post,  and  go  to "  you 

say  ;  i.e.  to  Tartarus.  Nay  !  but  have  you  not  rather  caught  a 
Tartar  ?  Here  have  I,  for  all  .these  years,  used  my  vernacular 
with  (for  a  writing-clerk)  passable  elegance ;  and  yet  you  are 
bent  on  goading  me  on  with  your  neat  and  masterly  letter,  to 
yelp  an  answer  in  such  dog-Latin  as  I  may.  However,  I  will 
try,  though  afraid  my  outlandish  and  far-fetched  barbarisms  will 
bring  disgrace  upon  Christ's  Hospital,  the  school  still  so  proud 
of  its  learned  Barnes  and  Markland,  where  in  days  gone  by  a 
wrong-headed  master  perseveringly  drenched  me  with  classical 
lore.  But  I  must  go  on  as  best  I  can.  Come  then  at  my  call, 
all  ye  troops  of  conjugations  or  declensions  !  horrible  spectres  ! 
and  come  first  and  foremost  thou — mightiest  shadow  and  image 
of  the  Rod — now  thank  Heaven  a  thing  of  the  past,  the  thought 
of  which  makes  me  howl  as  though  I  were  a  boy  again  ! 

Your  lines  written  at  Chamouni  I  certainly  think  very  noble, 
but  your  English  rendering  of  the  echo  among  the  Grisons 
(God  I  God  I)  rather  jars  upon  me.  I  cannot  forget  that  in 
your  own  Cumbrian  mountains  I  heard  you  rouse  the  echo 
(Dodd  !  Dodd  !)  of  the  unfortunate  Doctor's  name,  a  sound  by 
no  means  divine  !  As  to  the  rest,  I  entirely  approve. 

Your  comparisons  also  I  recognise  fully  as  witty  and  wise. 
But  how  about  their  truth  ?  I  iind  you  asserting  in  one  breath 
quite  inconsistently,  merely  for  comparison's  sake,  that  the 
First  Consul  is  endowed  with  the  "irritable  mind"  of  Juliua 
Caesar,  as  well  as  with  a  "constitutional  coolness  and  politic 
craft "  more  appropriate  to  Augustus :  and  then  in  the  third 
place  you  have  taken  much  trouble  to  extract  a  resemblance  to 
Tiberius.  Why  deal  with  one  or  two  Caesars  when  the  whole 
Twelve  are  only  too  ready  to  offer  you  their  services  for  com- 
parison ?  Besides  I  respect  antiquity  too  much  not  to  detest 
unfair  parallels. 


NOTES.  333 

I  am  wonderfully  pleased  to  have  your  account  of  the  marriage 
of  Wordsworth,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  of  a  certain  "  Edmund  " 
of  yours.  All  blessings  rest  on  thee,  Mary  !  too  happy  in  thy 
lot  ...  I  wish  thee  also  joy  in  this  new  alliance,  Dorothy 
— truly  so  named,  that  other  "gift  of  God." 

The  American  "Ludus"  of  which  you  prattle  so  much, 
Coleridge,  I  pass  over,  as  utterly  abhorrent  from  a  "Ludus" 
(as  such  things  go).  For  tell  me,  what  "  fun "  is  there  in 
estranging  from  ourselves,  sprung  from  the  same  stock  (for  the 
sake  of  one  miserable  jeu  d'esprit),  the  whole  of  the  Columbian 
nation.  I  ask  you  for  a  subject  for  something  "Sportive,"  and 
you  offer  me  "  Bloody  Wars." 

To  wind  up,  good-bye,  and  let  me  know  what  you  think  of 
my  Latin  style  ;  and  wish  for  me  all  health  and  beauty  to  my 
"Flying  Opossum,"  or  as  you  prefer  to  call  him  the  "Odd 
Fish."  Best  greetings  to  your  wife  and  my  good  Hartley.  We 
are  well,  self  and  sister,  who  desires  her  best  wishes.  No  more 
at  present.  My  time  is  not  my  own. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  I  have  two  volumes 
of  John  Milton's  Latin  Works,  which  (D.  V. )  I  will  have  sent 
with  the  rest  of  your  books  sooner  or  later  by  Mary.  You 
know,  however,  that  in  such  matters  I  am  by  no  means  in  the 
habit  of  hurrying ;  and  I  plead  guilty.  I  have  only  to  say 
further  that*  they  are  handsome  volumes,  containing  all  J.  M.  's 
Latin  works.  I  am  just  now  myself  engaged  and  deeply  inter- 
ested in  his  very  spirited  Apology  for  the  People  of  England. 

I  will  carefully  observe  you  instructions  about  Stuart.  Good- 
bye, once  more  ;  and  0  remember  me. 

LETTER  XCIII  (p.  187). —  Your  offer  about  the  German  poems. 
Coleridge  was  to  translate  some  of  the  best  German  lyrics  into 
literal  prose,  and  Lamb  was  then  to  turn  them  into  verse.  One 
experiment  of  the  kind  is  Lamb's  version  of  Thekla's  Song  in 
"  Wallenstein."  See  Poems,  Plays,  Essays,  p.  69. 

Your  ' '  Epigram  on  the  Sun  and  Moon. "  An  epigram  of  Cole- 
ridge's contributed  this  month  to  the  Morning  Post: — "On  the 
curious  circumstance  that  in  the  German  language  the  sun  is 
feminine  and  the  moon  masculine." 

Allen.  The  schoolfellow  of  Coleridge  and  Lamb  at  Christ's 
Hospital.  Robert  Allen  went  to  University  College,  Oxford, 
in  1792 — the  year  after  Coleridge  went  to  Jesus  College,  Cam- 
bridge. Coleridge  visited  Allen  at  Oxford  in  June  1794,  and 
was  introduced  by  him  to  Southey.  Allen  was  one  of  the 
original  Pantisocrats.  He  was  very  handsome.  See  anecdote 
of  him  in  the  Elia  Essay,  "  Christ's  Hospital  five  and  thirty 
years  ago." 

LETTER  XCIV  (p.  189).  —  "Once  a  Jacobin."    An  essay  of 


334  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Coleridge's  iu  the  Morning  Post  for  October  1802.  "Once  a 
Jacobin,  always  a  Jacobin."  Essays  on  his  own  Times,  ii.  p. 
542. 

Sam  Le  Grice.  Lamb's  schoolfellow  at  Christ's  Hospital. 
See  Elia  Essay,  "  Christ's  Hospital  five  and  thirty  years  ago," 
and  my  notes  thereon. 

LETTER  XCV  (p.  191).— S.  T.  C.'s  first  letter  to  Mr.  Fox  was 
published  in  the  Morning  Post  of  Thursday,  November  4,  1802. 
A  second  followed  on  November  9.  Both  are  included  in  the 
Essays  on  his  own  Times,  vol.  ii. 

LETTER  XCVI  (p.  193). — Joseph  Cottle,  the  bookseller  and 
publisher,  was  also,  like  his  brother  Amos,  a  poet.  He  produced 
Malvern  Hills  in  1798. 

Alfred,  an  epic  poem,  in  1801. 

LETTER  XC  VII  (p.  194). — A  merry  natural  captain.  Captain, 
afterwards  Admiral  Burney,  who  sailed  with  Captain  Cook  in 
two  of  his  voyages. 

LETTER  XCIX  (p.  198).— On  the  death  of  a  young  Quaker. 
See  the  beautiful  verses  entitled  "Hester"  (Poems,  Plays,  etc., 
p.  69).  Miss  Emma  Savory  of  Blackheath,  a  niece  of  Hester 
Savory,  has  kindly  supplied  me  with  a  few  biographical  details. 
"She  (Hester)  was  the  eldest  sister  of  my  father,  A^B.  Savory, 
and  lived  with  him  and  his  sisters,  Anna  and  Martha,  at  Pen- 
tonville.  She  married  Charles  Stoke  Dudley,  and  died,  eight 
months  after  her  mamage,  of  fever.  I  possess  a  miniature 
portrait  of  her  which  I  greatly  value.  My  mother  used  to  say 
that  her  beauty  consisted  more  in  expression  than  in  regularity 
of  features."  I  may  add  that  I  have  seen  this  miniature  which, 
even  after  reading  Lamb's  tender  and  beautiful  lyric,  is  any- 
thing but  disappointing.  It  is  a  bright-eyed  gypsy  face  such 
as  we  know  so  well  from  the  canvas  of  Reynolds.  Miss  Savory 
adds,  "  I  do  not  think  our  mother  was  aware  of  Charles  Lamb's 
attachment  to  Hester  Savory.  Perhaps  she  did  not  know  it 
herself." 

LETTER  C  (p.  199). — This  letter  refers  to  the  third  edition 
(1803)  of  Coleridge's  Poems,  which  he  had  placed  in  Lamb's 
hands  for  revision.  The  poem  called  "The  Silver  Thimble"  is 
that  already  referred  to,  in  which  Sara  Coleridge  had  some 
Email  share.  The  verses  on  "  Flicker  and  Flicker's  Wife  "  were 
entitled  simply,  "  Written  after  a  Walk  before  Supper."  They 
open  thus — 

"Tho*  much  averse,  dear  Jack,  to  flicker, 
To  find  a  likeness  for  friend  V — ker, 
I've  made  this  Earth  and  air  and  sea 
A  voyage  of  Discovery  J 


NOTES.  335 

And  let  me  add  (to  ward  Iff  strife), 
For  V — ker,  and  for  V — leer's  wife." 

Lamb's  habitual  inaccuracy  comes  out  here  also.  As  for  the 
omission  of  iliisjeu  d' esprit  in  the  forthcoming  edition,  no  one 
will  be  found  to  dissent  from  his  judgment. 

LETTER  CII  (p.  202).— This  letter  is  addressed  to  "Mr.  T. 
Manning,  Maison  Magnan,  No.  342  Boulevard  Italien,  Paris." 

An  epitaph  scribbled  upon  a  poor  girl.  Written  upon  a 
young  lady  of  the  name  of  Mary  Druitt,  at  Wimborne,  Dorset- 
shire. The  late  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier  gives  a  slightly  different  ver- 
sion of  the  lines  in  his  "Old  Man's  Diary"  (privately  printed). 
Mr.  Collier  says  that  the  girl  died  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  of 
smallpox,  and  that  the  lines  were  engraved  upon  the  tomb ; 
but  I  learn  from  members  of  the  Druitt  family  still  living  at 
Wimborne  that  this  latter  statement  is  not  correct. 

LETTER  CVI  (p.  207). — Lamb's  animadversions  upon  God- 
win's lengthy  Life  of  Chaucer  are  as  usual  admirably  just.  The 
work  consisted  of  four-fifths  ingenious  guessing  to  one-fifth  of 
material  having  any  historic  basis. 

Schoolboy  copy  of  verses  for  Merchant  Taylors'  boys.  The  boys 
were  allowed  to  get  help  from  outside  in  the  composition  of 
their  weekly  epigrams.  In  later  years  we  find  him  making 
some  for  the  present  Archdeacon  Hessey  and  his  brother,  when 
at  that  school. 

LETTER  CXII  (p.  216). — Farewell  to  my  "Friendly  Traitress." 
The  "Farewell  to  Tobacco."  First  published  in  Leigh  Hunt's 
Reflector  in  1811,  and  afterwards  in  Lamb's  collected  works  in 
1818.  See  Poems,  Plays,  etc.,  p.  70. 

LETTER  CXIII  (p.  219). — Mr.  Dawe.  See  the  papers  by 
Lamb,  written  long  afterwards,  "Recollections  of  a  late  Royal 
Academician."  (Mrs.  Leicester's  School,  etc.,  p.  307.) 

Lord  Nelson,  died  October  21,  1805, 

Luck  to  JNed  Search.  The  Light  of  Nature,  by  Edward 
Search,  Esq.,  was  a  work  by  Abraham  Tucker,  which  Hazlitt 
was  at  this  time  engaged  in  abridging  and  editing.  His  abridg- 
ment appeared  in  1807. 

LETTER  CXV  (p.  222).— Life  of  Fawcett.  "Report  was  rife 
that  a  life  of  the  Rev.  Joseph  Fawcett,  Mr.  Hazlitt's  early  friend, 
might  be  expected  from  the  same  quarter ;  but  such  Avas  not 
the  fact "  (Memoir  of  Hazlitt,  by  his  Grandson).  Fawcett  was 
a  dissenting  minister  at  Walthamstow,  who  published  various 
Sermons,  Poems,  etc. 

LETTER  CXX  (p.  228).— Addressed:— "Mr.  Manning,  Pas 
senger  on  Board  the  Thames,  East  Indiaman,  Portsmouth. 


336  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

A  short  postscript  to  this  letter  was  omitted  by  Talfourd  : — 
"  One  thing  more,  when  you  get  to  Canton  you  will  most  likely 
oee  a  young  friend  of  mine,  Inspector  of  Teas,  named  Ball.  Ha 
is  a  very  good  fellow,  and  I  should  like  to  have  my  name  talked 
of  in  Chuia.  Give  my  kind  remembrances  to  the  same  Ball." 

LETTER  CXXI  (p.  230).— The  good  news  of  Mrs.  W.  Words- 
worth's son  Thomas  was  born  on  the  16th  of  June  1806. 

Mr.  H. — See  Poems,  Plays,  etc.,  p.  348  and  note. 

A  young  gentleman  of  my  office.  We  shall  have  occasion  here- 
after to  mention  this  fellow-clerk  of  Lamb's.  For  an  account 
of  Coleridge's  early  passion  for  Evans's  sister  Mary,  see  Gill- 
man's  Life  of  Coleridge  and  Cottle's  Reminiscences. 

LETTER  CXXVI  (p.  241).— The  Tales  from  Shakspcare.  The 
plates  referred  to  by  Lamb  were  designed  (as  is  believed)  by 
William  Mulready,  then  a  young  man  of  twenty,  and  engraved 
by  Williain  Blake.  The  "bad  baby"  was  a  familiar  nickname 
for  Mrs.  Godwin.  The  subject  from  the  Merchant  of  Venice 
was  lettered,  "Gratiano  and  Nerissa  desire  to  be  married"; 
the  illustration  to  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  bore  for  title 
"Nic  Bottom  and  the  Fairies."  In  spite  of  Lamb's  objection 
to  this  latter,  it  is  by  far  the  best  of  all  the  illustrations,  both 
in  design  and  drawing,  and  indicates  very  clearly  the  hand  of 
Blake.  The  "  giants  and  giantesses  "  of  whom  Lamb  complains 
are  certainly  too  frequent  in  these  illustrations. 

LETTER  CXXVII  (p.  242).— The  story  of  William  Hazlitt's 
disappearance,  which  caused  anxiety  to  his  family,  will  be 
found  in  the  Memoir  of  Hazlitt,  by  his  grandson  (chapter  xi.) 

LETTER  CXXVIII  (p.  243).— Talfourd  omitted  a  few  sentences 
from  this  letter,  which  may  as  well  be  restored.  ''Godwin 
keeps  a  shop  in  Skinner  Street,  Cornhill ;  he  is  termc  i  chil- 
drenrs  bookseller,  and  sells  penny,  twopenny,  threepenny,  and 
fourpenny  books.  Sometimes  he  gets  an  order  for  the  dearer 
sort  of  books  (mind,  all  that  I  tell  you  in  this  letter  is  true)." 

Pauper  est  tainen,  sed  amat.  Lamb  wrote  "  Pauper  est  Cinna 
Bed  amat"  The  source  of  the  quotation  is  unknown  to  me. 

LETTER  CXXIX  (p.  247). — The  passage  about  the  "giant's 
vomit "  was  from  the  story  of  Polyphemus  in  Lamb's  version 
of  the  Odyssey. 

LETTER  CXXX  (p.  248).— Coleridge's  Friend  made  its  first 
appearance  on  the  first  of  June  1809,  and  its  last  on  March 
15,  1810. 


NOTES.  337 

CHAPTER   III. 

1809-1816. 

LETTER  CXXXI  (p.  249).—  Mrs.  Clarke.  The  mistress  of  the 
Duke  of  York,  second  son  of  George  III.,  and  Commander-iu- 
Chief  of  the  Forces.  "  It  was  established  beyond  the  possi- 
bility of  doubt  that  the  Duke  had  permitted  Mrs.  Clarke  to 
interfere  in  military  promotions  ;  that  he  had  given  commissions 
at  her  recommendation  ;  and  that  she  had  taken  money  for 
the  recommendations."  In  consequence  of  the  public  excite- 
ment and  indignation  on  the  subject,  the  Duke  resigned  his 
office  on  the  20th  of  March  of  this  year. 

Godwin's  little  book.     Godwin,  On  Sepulchres. 

LETTER  CXXXII  (p.  251).— Wordsworth's  book.  The  Con- 
vention of  Cintra.  ' '  Concerning  the  relations  of  Great  Britain, 
Spain,  and  Portugal  to  each  other,  and  to  the  common  enemy 
at  this  crisis,  and  specifically  as  affected  by  the  Convention  of 
Cintra,"  etc.  etc.,  by  W.  Wordsworth.  Longmans.  May  20, 1 809. 

Daniel,  enriched  with  manuscript  notes.  These  are  printed  in 
Notes  and  Queries,  1st  Series,  vi.  117. 

Two  volumes  of  Juvenile  Poetry.  "  Poetry  for  Children, 
entirely  original."  By  the  Author  of  Mrs.  Leicester's  School.  In 
two  volumes.  London.  Printed  for  M.  J.  Godwin  at  the 
Juvenile  Library,  No.  44,  Skinner  Street.  1809. 

Calebs.  "Ccelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,"  by  Hannah  More, 
published  in  1809. 

LETTEB  CXXXIII  (p.  254). — The  rich  Auditors  in  Albeinarle 
Street.  The  audience  at  the  Lectures  by  Coleridge,  given  at  the 
Royal  Institution  the  year  before. 

My  admiration  of  the  pamphlet.  Evidently  refers  to  Words- 
worth's pamphlet  on  the  Convention  of  Cintra,  mentioned  in 
the  preceding  letter. 

LETTER  CXXXIV  (p.  255).  Dr.  Tuthill,  afterwards  Sir 
George  L.  Tuthill,  M.D.,  Physician  to  Bethlehem,  Bridewell, 
and  Westminster  Hospitals. 

Hazlitt  has  written  a  grammar.  "A  new  and  improved 
grammar  of  the  English  tongue  for  the  use  of  schools  .  .  .  t^ 
which  is  added  a  new  guide  to  the  English  tongue,  in  a  lettei 
to  Mr.  W.  F.  Mylius,  author  of  the  School  Dictionary,  by 
Edward  Baldwin,  Esq.  (Godwin)."  1810. 

LETTER  CXXXV   (p.   259).— See   Lamb's  Essay  "On  the 
Poetical  Works  of  George  Wither  "  (Poems,  Plays,  and  Essays, 
p.  295,  and  the  note  upon  it,  p.  397).     The  annotated  volume 
Z 


338  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  IAMB. 

is  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr.   A.  C.   Swinburne,  who  has 
published  a.  full  and  very  interesting  account  of  it. 

LETTER  CXXXVI  (p.  2GQ).  —  Wi7iterslo'to,  near  Sarum.  The 
residence  of  William  Hazlitt,  on  the  border  of  Salisbury  Plain. 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  spent  their  summer  holiday  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hazlitt  this  year.  Basil  Montagu  had  written  to 
Lamb  suggesting  to  him  to  revise  a  MS.  treatise  on  the 
subject  of  Capital  Punishment. 

LETTER  CXXXVII  (p.  261).— H.  Robinson.  Henry  Crabb 
Robinson.  See  his  delightful  Diaries  for  constant  mention  of 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 

LETTER  CXXXVIII  (p.  262). — Cram  monsters  in  the  voids  of 
the  maps.  Lamb  was  thinking  of  Swift's  lines  (in  the  "  Ode  to 
Poetry  ")  about  the  geographers  who — 

' '  On  Afric  downs 
Place  elephants  for  want  of  towns." 

LETTER  CXXXIX  (p.  262).  —  Your  continuation  of  the  Essay 
on  Epitaphs.  Wordsworth  had  published  the  first  part  of 
this  essay  in  Coleridge's  Friend,  February  22,  1810.  He  pub- 
lished it  later  in  separate  form  with  additions.  The  "turgid 
epitaph  "  referred  to  was  one  from  a  churchyard  in  Westmore- 
land, of  the  year  1693,  of  which  Wordsworth  thought  it  worth 
while  to  compose  a  simpler  version  in  prose. 

LETTER  CXLI  (p.  265).  —  Your  reply  to  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
"Reformist's  reply  to  the  Edinburgh  Review,"  1810.  "A 
pamphlet,"  says  Hunt  in  his  Autobiography,  "which  I  wrote  in 
defence  of  the  Review's  own  reforming  principles,  which  it  had 
lately  taken  into  its  head  to  renounce  as  impracticable." 

LETTER  CXLII  (p.  266). — John  Lamb's  book  on  the  subject 
of  Humanity  has  not  yet,  I  believe,  been  identified  by  students 
of  Lamb.  From  the  concluding  sentence  of  this  letter  we  must 
infer  that  it  dealt  chiefly  with  anti-vivisectionist  topics. 

LETTER  CXLIII  (p.  267).— The  letter  congratulates  William 
Hazlitt  on  the  birth  of  his  first  child,  or  at  least  the  first  which 
survived. 

H.  Bunbury,  Esq.  (1750-1811).  The  caricaturist,  friend  of 
Johnson,  Goldsmith,  and  Garrick. 

Martin  and  the  card-boys.  Martin  Burney  and  the  rest  of 
the  little  whist-coterie. 

LETTER  CXLIV  (p.  268). — To  give  your  vote  to-morrow.  H. 
Crabb  Robinson,  under  date,  March  16,  1811,  writes:  "  C.  Lamh 
stepped  in  to  announce  Dr.  Tuthill's  defeat  as  candidate  for  the 
post  of  physician  to  St.  Luke's  Hospital."  The  contest,  Mrs. 
Procter  informs  me,  was  very  severe,  and  many  friends  of  the 


NOTES.  339 

candidates  bought  governorships  at  £50  for  the  sake  of  votes. 
Basil  Montagu  bought  one  for  Lamb. 

LETTER  CXLV  (p.  269).— The  Well-bred  Scholar.  I  do  not 
find  any  work  of  this  name  assigned  to  W.  F.  Mylius,  who  was 
a  diligent  compiler  of  school-books.  He  was  a  master  at  Christ's 
Hospital.  Dr.  Southey  was  a  brother  of  the  poet. 

Going  to  eat  lurbot.  At  the  annual  dinner  of  old  Christ's 
Hospital  boys. 

LETTER  CXLVI  (p.  271). — The  noblest  conversational  poem. 
Wordsworth's  Excursion,  just  published. 

The  whole  surface  of  Hyde  Park  is  dry  crumbling  sand.  Early 
in  August  1814,  the  three  London  Parks  were  thrown  open  to 
the  public,  in  celebration  of  the  Peace  between  England  and 
Prance.  There  were  fireworks  and  illuminations ;  Chinese 
Pagodas  and  "Temples  of  Concord"  were  erected;  and  the 
Parks  were,  in  fact,  converted  into  a  vast  Fair.  *It  was  two 
years  before  they  recovered  their  usual  verdure. 

"At  the  coming  of  the  milder  day."  See  Wordsworth 'a 
Poem,  "Hart-Leap  Well" — 

"  She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay, 
That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be  known  ; 
But  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day 
These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown." 

LETTER  CXLVII  (p.  274). — "Remorse."  Coleridge's  tragedy, 
which,  owing  to  the  good  offices  of  Lord  Byron,  had  been 
brought  out  at  Drury  Lane,  January  23,  1813,  with  a  Prologue 
by  Lamb.  It  ran  twenty  nights. 

Old  Jimmy  JBoyer.  Rev.  James  Boyer,  the  former  Head- 
Master  of  Christ's  Hospital,  while  Lamb  and  Coleridge  were  at 
the  school. 

LETTER  CXLVIII  (p.  276). — Time  enough  for  the  Quarterly. 
Lamb's  forthcoming  Review  of  the  Excursion.  See  the  Review, 
and  notes  thereupon,  in  Mrs.  Leicester's  School  and  other 
Writings,  etc.,  pp.  210  and  395. 

LETTER  CXL1X  (p.  278). — Your  experience  about  tailors. 
The  allusion  is  hardly  intelligible.  The  reference  to  Burton  is 
obviously  to  Lamb's  Paper  "On  the  Melancholy  of  Tailors," 
signed  "  Burton  junior,"  which  appeared  first  in  the  Champion, 
December  4,  1814. 

W.  H.  is  William  Hazlitt,  who  had  lately  reviewed  Words- 
worth's Excursion  in  the  Examiner.  This  Review  was  partially 
reprinted  by  Hazlitt  in  the  Round  Table,  1817. 

The  melancholy  Jew.  A  Jew  of  the  name  of  Levi  had  lately 
flung  himself  from  the  monument  in  Fish  Street  Hill. 

Another  Hylas.    "  An  interesting  little  love-adventure  which 


340  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

he  (Hazlitt)  met  with  down  at  the  Lakes  while  he  was  on  his 
first  experimental  trip  in  search  of  sitters,  is  so  distinctly 
alluded  to  in  a  letter  from  Lamb  to  Wordsworth,  that  I  shall 
just  give  what  Lamb  says  about  it,  premising  that  Pat  more  had 
heard  in  his  time  of  some  story  of  my  grandfather  being  struck 
by  the  charms  of  a  village  beauty  in  Wordsworth's  neighbour- 
hood, and  of  having  narrowly  escaped  being  ducked  by  the 
swains  for  his  ill -appreciated  attentions.  Wordsworth  had 
evidently  described  the  whole  affair  in  a  letter  to  Lamb " 
(Memoirs  of  William  Hazlitt,  by  W.  C.  Hazlitt,  i.  105,  106). 

LETTER  CLI  (p.  283). — Your  successive  book  presents.  In 
1815  Wordsworth  published  a  New  Edition  of  his  Poems  with 
the  following  title : — Poems  by  William  Wordsworth :  includ- 
ing Lyrical  Ballads,  and  the  Miscellaneous  Pieces  of  the  Author. 
With  Additional  Poems,  a  neno  Preface,  and  a  Supplementary 
Essay.  In  two  Volumes.  Among  the  poems  that  appeared  for 
the  first  time  in  this  edition  were  "Yarrow  Visited,"  "The 
Force  of  Prayer:  or,  The  Founding  of  Bolton  Abbey,"  "The 
Farmer  of  Tilsbury  Vale,"  "Laodamia,"  "Yew  Trees,"  "A 
Night  Piece,"  and  others.  It  was  naturally  on  these  that  Lamb 
made  his  comments.  He  also  refers  to  the  various  changes  of 
text  made  since  the  appearance  of  the  previous  edition  in  1807. 
Some  of  the  former  readings  were  restored  in  later  editions,  per- 
haps in  consequence  of  Lamb's  remonstrances.  The  admirable 
line — 

"  The  stone-chat  and  the  glancing  sand-piper  " 

(as  Latnb  truly  says,  "a  line  quite  alive")  is  one  of  these.  It 
occurs  in  the  beautiful  poem  "  Lines  left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew- 
tree,"  and  in  the  1815  edition  had  given  place  to  the  far 
inferior — 

"  The  stone-chat,  or  the  sand-lark,  restless  Bird 
Piping  along  the  margin  of  the  lake. " 

The  "  substitution  of  a  shell "  to  which  Lamb  alludes  was 
in  the  poem  "The  blind  Highland  Boy,"  where  the  vessel 
in  which  the  poor  boy  embarked  was  originally  a  washing-tub, 
but  which  was  now*exchanged  (at  the  request  of  friends  whose 
self-respect  was  wounded)  tor  a  turtle-shell. 

The  Preface  is  noble.  The  allusion  in  the  words  that  follow 
is  to  a  mention  Wordsworth  had  made  of  Lamb,  in  citing  a 
sentence  from  his  Essay  on  Hogarth.  He  there  speaks  of  Lamb 
as  one  of  his  "most  esteemed  friends."  The  "  printed  extracts 
from  those  first  poems  "  refers  to  the  extracts  from  an  "  Evening 
Walk  "  and  "  Descriptive  Sketches,"  early  poems  first  published 
in  1793. 

The  poems  "by  a  female  friend"  were  by  Dorothy  Wordsworth. 
"Three  short  pieces  (now  first  published),"  we  read  in  the 


NOTES.  841 

Preface,  "are  the  work  of  a  Female  Friend,  and  the  Reader  to 
whom  they  may  be  acceptable  is  indebted  to  me  for  his  pleasure." 

An  undoubtable  picture  of  Milton.  This  picture,  which  came 
into  Charles  Lamb's  possession  after  his  brother's  death,  was 
given  by  him  to  Emma  Isola. 

The  Latin  Poems  of  V.  Bourne.  Cowper's  friend,  and 
Master  at  Westminster  School.  Lamb,  as  well  as  Cowper,  wrote 
and  printed  various  translations  from  Bourne's  Latin  Poems. 

"  To  t/icm  each  evening  had  its  glittering  star" — from  the 
Excursion,  Book  V.  "The  man  and  his  consort"  are  the 
matron  and  her  husband  on  whose  industrious  lives  these  lines 
are  a  comment. 

LETTER  CLII  (p.  286). — "yarrow  Visited."  The  exquisite 
stanza  referred  to  I  would  almost  hope  there  is  no  need  to 
cite,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  to  repeat  it : — 

"  But  thou  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 
Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 
Her  delicate  creation." 

The  poem  called  by  Lamb  the  "  Boy-builders  "  is  that  better 
known  as  "Rural  Architecture."     It  was  first  printed  in  1800, 
and  had  a  final  stanza,  omitted  in  1815,  ending  with  the  lines — 
"  Then,  light-hearted  boys,  to  the  top  of  the  crag, 

And  I'll  build  up  a  giant  with  you." 

I  don't  often  go  out  a  "  May  "  ing  ; — "must"  is  the  tense  with 
me  now.  It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  Hood  uses  thia 
antithesis  with  exquisite  effect  in  his  "Ode  to  Melancholy": — 

"  Even  as  the  blossoms  of  the  May, 
Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must." 

"  What  is  good  fur  a  bootless  bene  ?"  The  first  line  of  the  poem 
on  Bolton  Abbey  : — 

"  '  What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene  ?' 

With  these  dark  words  begins  my  tale  ; 
And  their  meaning  is,  whence  can  comfort  spring 
When  Prayer  is  of  no  avail  ? " 

Who  looked  over  your  proof -sheets  and  left  "ordebo"  in  that 
line  of  Virgil  t    Wordsworth  had  cited  in  his  preface  Virgil's 
lines  from  the  first  Eclogue  about  the  shepherd  and  the  goats  : — 
"  Non  ego  vos  posthac  viridi  prujectus  in  antro 
Dumosa  pendere  procul  de  rupe  videbo. " 

LETTER  CLII  I  (p.  290).— Southey's  Roderick,  the  Last  of  the 
Goths,  was  published  in  quarto,  in  1814. 

LETTER  CLIV  (p.  292).—  Hartley's  intellectuals.  Hartley 
Coleridge,  now  just  nineteen  years  of  age,  was  at  Oxford. 


342  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Spend  a  week  at  Poole's.  Thomas  Poole,  a  gentleman  whose 
name  has  occurred  already  as  the  friend  of  Coleridge  and  Lamb. 
Poole  succeeded  to  his  father's  business  as  a  tanner  at  Nether- 
Stowey.  Coleridge  made  his  acqaintance,  through  friends  in 
Bristol,  as  early  as  1794  ;  and  it  was  to  be  near  Poole  that  he 
went  to  live  at  Stowey  in  the  winter  of  1796-97.  It  was  thus 
that  Nether-Stowey  became,  as  Mrs.  Henry  Sandford,  Poole's 
relative,  truly  says,  "a  centre  of  the  leading  intellectual  im- 
pulses of  the  time."  Among  other  friends  of  Poole's  were  Sir 
Humphrey  Davy,  the  Wedgwood  brothers,  and  John  Rickman  ; 
and  in  a  less  intimate  degree  Wordsworth,  Southey,  and  Clark- 
son.  Poole  retired  from  business  about  the  year  1804,  and 
thenceforth  devoted  himself  to  the  interests  of  his  native  place, 
and  to  all  questions  affecting  the  welfare  of  the  labouring 
classes.  He  died  in  1837. 

LETTER  CLV  (p.  294). — Alsager.  Thomas  Massa  Alsager. 
For  twenty-eight  years  attached  to  the  Times  newspaper,  in 
which  he  wrote  the  city  and  money  articles.  He  further  con- 
trolled the  musical  department  of  the  paper.  He  did  more 
than  perhaps  any  man  of  his  time  to  promote  the  study  and 
performance  of  classical  chamber  music,  especially  Beethoven's 
Quartettes.  Hence  Lamb's  allusion  to  the  propriety  of  varying 
the  spelling  of  his  name.  He  died  in  1846. 

Heautontimorumenos.  "The  Self- tormentor, "  the  title  of  a 
comedy  of  Terence. 

Capell  Loft  (1751-1824).  The  Whig  lawyer,  writer  on  legal 
and  political  subjects,  and  poet.  He  was  a  native  of  Bury 
St.  Edmunds,  and  brought  into  notice  the  Suffolk  poet,  Bloom- 
field.  He  sometimes  printed  sonnets  with  his  initials  C.  L., 
to  the  disgust  of  Lamb  who  bore  the  same. 

The  juvenile  Talfourd.  This  first  mention  of  one  who  was 
afterwards  to  be  Lamb's  biographer  deserves  a  word  of  comment. 
He  was  at  this  time  a  young  man  of  twenty,  living  in  chambers 
in  Inner  Temple  Lane,  and  reading  with  Mr.  Joseph  Chitty, 
the  Special  Pleader.  Talfourd  had  just  before  this  been  intro- 
duced to  Lamb  at  the  house  of  Mr.  William  Evans,  of  the  India 
House,  and  editor  of  the  Pamphleteer.  I  shall  have  occasion 
hereafter  to  mention  this  latter  gentleman  in  connection  with 
Lamb  and  Joseph  Cottle. 

LETTER  CLVI  (p.  297).— J/iss  Hutchinson,  Mrs.  Words- 
worth's sister. 

LETTER  CLIX  (p.  302).  —  The  Political  Sonnets  and  Ode. 
The  ode  was  evidently  Wordsworth's  Thanksgiving  Ode, 
composed  on  the  morning  of  the  day  appointed  for  a  General 
Thanksgiving,  January  18,  1816. 


NOTES.  343 

The  Covent  Garden  Manager  has  declined  accepting  his 
Tragedy.  Coleridge's  play  Zapolya.  Though  Byron's  good 
offices  were  ineffectual  in  getting  this  second  tragedy  accepted 
by  the  managers,  Byron  introduced  Coleridge  to  John  Murray, 
which  na.3  the  means  (according  to  Tom  Moore)  of  its  publica- 
tion as  A  Christmas  Tale  a  year  later. 

At  a  Chemist's  Laboratory  in  Norfolk  Street.  I  do  not  know 
that  Coleridge's  biographers  mention  this  temporary  lodging  of 
Coleridge's.  It  could  have  been  but  for  a  few  days,  for  on  the 
very  day  on  which  this  letter  was  written,  application  had  been 
made  to  Mr.  Gillman  of  High  gate,  and  a  week  later  Coleridge 
entered  that  gentleman's  house,  destined  to  be  his  home  until 
his  death,  eighteen  years  afterwards. 

LETTER  CLX  (p.  304).  —  The  revise  of  the  poems  and  letter. 
The  letter  referred  to  was  Wordsworth's  Letter  to  a  Friend 
of  Burns,  London,  1816.  Wordsworth  had  been  consulted 
by  a  friend  of  Burns  as  to  the  best  mode  of  vindicating 
the  reputation  of  the  poet  which,  it  was  alleged,  had  been  much 
injured  by  the  publication  of  Dr.  Carrie's  Life  and  Correspond- 
ence of  Burns. 

Morgan  is  with  us  every  day.  John  Morgan,  Coleridge's 
old  Bristol  friend,  and  through  life  one  of  his  kindest  and 
staunchest  supporters.  He  had  a  house  at  Calne,  in  Wiltshire, 
where  Coleridge  lived  with  him  for  many  months  at  a  time. 
Lamb  was  in  all  probability  staying  with  Morgan  when  he 
wrote  the  letter  that  follows,  dated  from  that  town. 

LETTER  CLXII  (p.  308).  Henry  Dodwell  was  a  fellow-clerk 
of  Lamb's  in  the  India  House.  This  exquisite  letter  has  never 
before  been  printed  as  a  whole.  I  quoted  a  portion  of  it  in  the 
notes  of  a  previous  volume  of  this  edition.  The  "Cobbette" 
are  recourse  the  "Political  Registers." 


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